Adopted
by JudasFm
Summary: There's a new member of the Holmes family.  Adapting to the Holmes lifestyle and way of doing things isn't easy, however...and just what will Sherlock make of his new brother? Post Reichenbach. Please R&R!
1. At Home With The Holmeses

**None mine, etc. Well, except for the characters that are, obviously ;)**

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><p>I hate being a Holmes.<p>

There. I said it. Mycroft, you can run to 'Mummy' with your little tales. I don't care anymore. I hate you, I hate 'Mummy', I hate this house and I hate every single member of the Holmes family!

I'm not even a real Holmes. Mrs Holmes (she wants me to call her Mummy, can you believe that? I'm almost fourteen!) adopted me because she wants to share her wealth and home with someone less fortunate. And no, I'm not being sarcastic; she said that herself.

For the vultures among you, the answer is _no_. I'm not abused here; that's not why I hate it. I have regular meals, my own room (huge) and my own bathroom, and my own study.

Oh yeah. That's the other thing. The Holmeses are rich. _Really_ rich. I don't mean they have nice holidays and buy the odd DVD without worrying about the cost. I mean they go into places like Harrods and fill three trolleys between them without worrying about the cost. I mean they have whole rooms entirely torn out and redesigned and rebuilt and refurnished on a whim without worrying about the cost. I mean they buy brand new, expensive cars every year for their chauffeurs to drive them around in, and take a private jet to their own private island every year without worrying about the cost. _That_ kind of rich. I don't know how much their house is worth, but it's got to be in the eight figure range. It's got a helipad, an indoor swimming pool with a diving board and even its own pair of hedge mazes. One of those was designed by Mycroft, the Golden Boy of the family. I've been in it once or twice, although I haven't made it to the middle yet.

I don't know who designed the other one. Nobody will tell me. I did try to solve it, but it took me six hours just to find my way back to the exit (which happens to be disguised as part of the wall, once you get into the maze). I was so relieved to be safely out that I never want to go back there again.

You're probably wondering why I hate living here. After all, it's a lot bigger than my foster home, and at least here I have my own bedroom, not to mention the pool.

The truth is, I feel trapped here. Everything's gotta have rules. Rules about what a Holmes can do, and what a Holmes can't do, and there are a lot more of the second than the first. For example, I'm not allowed to play football anymore, since only hooligans play football. I'm not allowed to play video games, because they're nasty and violent (although I've managed to get some on my laptop anyway). I have to dress nicely for dinner every night, and there are so many rules about etiquette that I've given up trying to remember half of them. I'm supposed to have gentle hobbies, like walking in the country or reading. I'm allowed to watch TV, so long as it's something like the news or politics, or a historical film and only at certain times. I can have friends over, so long as they're 'nice' friends. And I can learn to play the flute, although it's more accurate to say that I'm ordered to learn. Guitar or drums would've been okay, but the _flute_? Please.

I gotta say, if Mycroft's childhood was even half as boring and regimented as mine's become, it's no wonder he only visits once a week.

Oh yeah. Mycroft. Mycroft is my older brother. He comes over every Sunday. At first I thought it would be nice having an older brother, but I didn't realize at the time that he would be so _much_ older. He's old enough to be my father and I'm not trying to be rude or anything; it's the truth.

Anyway, Sunday here is Family Day, at least officially. Unofficially, I think it should be called Brag About Mycroft Day; me, Mrs Holmes and Mycroft all sit in the drawing room (no, it's not a _lounge_; it's a_ drawing room_) from ten in the morning until five in the afternoon – sometimes later – listening to how _clever_ Mycroft is and how _wonderful_ Mycroft is and how _important_ Mycroft is at his work. I don't think Mrs Holmes knows what this work _is_; just that if Mycroft the Magnificent is doing it, then he's obviously the most important person at...well, wherever he works.

Mycroft himself doesn't say any of this, by the way, or even confirm it; he just sits there, lets Mrs Holmes get on with it and checks his mobile phone whenever she's not looking. I've never heard him boast about himself or even talk about himself very much. I don't have a lot to do with him; we've said about ten words to each other since I moved in. I don't think he really cares for her; I think he just visits because he feels he has to. I know he doesn't care about me, but that's alright since I don't much like him either.

He's a man of habit, though, and one who never visits on any day except Sunday, which was why I was surprised to look out my window on Thursday morning and see his car parked in the driveway.

I groaned. Whenever Mycroft's around, I have to act like the perfect little gentleman, speak like he does (or try to) and smile and agree with everything he says, not because Mycroft wants me to but because Mrs Holmes insists on it.

Maybe I was unlucky and he'd come down early for Christmas to try and beat the weather. We'd had a lot of snow recently, which would have been cool if there was someone else besides me who liked it. Mrs Holmes isn't the snowballing type. I don't know what would happen if I hit Mycroft with a snowball, but I'm pretty sure it would involve the end of the world.

I waited until I heard her and Mycroft go into the drawing room, then I crept downstairs to listen. When I first moved in, I discovered two things. The first is that Mrs Holmes has what must be the country's biggest collection of pot plants. Seriously. There are some rooms in this house which are more like gardens. The second thing I discovered was that there are enough of these same pot plants just outside the drawing room to make a very good hiding place.

I don't often eavesdrop, since Mrs Holmes' conversation is always so boring, but this time I was curious. What would bring Mycroft out of his beloved office during the week?

I wriggled in between two bushy plants, pulled a rubber plant in behind me and settled down to listen.

"—so lovely to see you, darling," Mrs Holmes was saying. "Sit down and I'll tell Mrs Parker to cook you a nice big breakfast, you know how you like your bacon—"

"No, don't bother; I can't stay long. I only came because you said it was so urgent."

I heard Mrs Holmes pouring tea into a cup for herself, then she said, "How are things at the office, dear?"

"Fine." Mycroft bit the word off at the end.

"Well, that's nice. And it's lovely to see you. I always say they work you too hard at that place and—"

"You said it was _urgent_." There was a definite bite in Mycroft's voice now.

"Oh yes. Would you like a biscuit?"

"No thank you. Just tell me why you called me here."

"Are you eating enough, dear?"

"_Yes_."

"That's good." I heard the tinkle of silver on china as Mrs Holmes stirred her tea. "Have you heard from your brother lately?"

I blinked. She thought I was in touch with Mycroft? How clueless could you _get_?

There was a long pause, then Mycroft said in a heavy voice. "No, and I don't suppose I ever shall."

"Well, if you can't find him, then I'm sure that nice Wilford of yours could help—"

"Wilford would be hospitalized if he went anywhere near my brother. Sherlock knows who works for me."

Sherlock? What kind of weird name was _Sherlock_?

"I'm sure if you gave him a chance to explain—"

"There's nothing to explain!"

I jumped and almost knocked the pot plant over. I'd never heard Mycroft raise his voice to anyone before, let alone his own mother.

"Sherlock is a very dangerous man," Mycroft went on sharply, "and right at this moment, he is _also_ a very _angry_ one. He has people too, and he also has me under constant surveillance whenever I'm not in my house or at the office. I don't think he's yet managed to infiltrate my workforce, but I suspect that this hasn't been for lack of trying on his part, and I also suspect that it's only a matter of time. He refuses to take my calls and on the one occasion when I tried going to his flat, his landlady wouldn't let me inside."

"You should have _insisted, _darling."

"She was holding a rolling pin at the time, and she's not the kind of woman who would be afraid to use it. Besides, my sources tell me that the last person who attacked Sherlock's landlady was unfortunate enough to fall out of a window." Mycroft paused, then added, "Several times, according to the police report."

"Well, it's not right. You should look after your brother, Mycroft."

I heard Mycroft sigh. "Why did you call me here? I really am extremely busy."

Mrs Holmes' voice had an injured note as she answered, "I wanted to tell you that I'm going to invite Sherlock over for Christmas and New Year. Do you have his telephone number?"

There was a long pause, then Mycroft said, "That really isn't—"

"I don't want any of your silly excuses. This childish feud between you has gone on long enough and if neither of you are willing to kiss and make up, Mycroft, then as your mother, I'll just have to step in. You and Sherlock will be here for two weeks. That should be plenty of time for the two of you to put an end to this sibling rivalry, you _know_ it upsets me. I'm sure you can persuade Sherlock to bury the hatchet."

"Yes, in _my_ bloody head!"

Wow. This really did sound serious. If I'd never heard Mycroft raise his voice before, I'd _really_ never heard him swear.

"Don't use words like that, darling; you know I don't like them. Sherlock is coming and that is final. Now, give me his number, do."

"Is this the urgent matter?" Mycroft demanded, in tones which said it had better not be. "You called me here to give you my brother's mobile number?"

"Landline, dear, you know I hate those horrible mobiles. I don't know why you have one. Now, what is it?"

"You couldn't have phoned me and asked for it? I really had a lot to do today—"

"Oh, don't be silly. You don't come over half as often as you might, you know. What's your brother's number?"

"I think you're making a big mistake. And what about Benedict? Do you really think it advisable to have my brother meet him so soon? Or even at _all_? He's hardly the poster child for fine etiquette, is he? He's sullen, unappreciative and determined to have his own way in everything."

Mrs Holmes sighed. "I know, Mycroft, but Benedict is a member of the family now. You must learn to accept that. You know you're still my favorite son."

Benedict isn't my name, by the way – it's just plain old Ben – but apparently if you're a Holmes kid, even an adopted one, you're not allowed to have a normal name. I hate it, but I guess I shouldn't complain. Compared to Mycroft and this Sherlock character, whoever he was, I think I got off lightly.

"I was talking about Sherlock. I think it's a bad idea you inviting my brother to meet Benedict. He probably won't come; he never has before. Knowing my brother, he won't even bother to answer the invitation."

I frowned. My adoption had happened a lot faster than I thought was normal, so I hadn't had a lot of time to get to know this family, but I'd always thought Mycroft was an only child.

"Oh Mycroft, this silly feud has gone on long enough. I'm sure Sherlock misses his big brother."

Mycroft let out a very short laugh, one I couldn't help feeling had no humor in it at all.

"I'm not," he said. "Besides, I can't possibly come here over Christmas; I've got far too much going on at the office."

I've never found out where this office of his is, by the way. I'm starting to think he doesn't have one. I mean, it's not like he _needs _to work; about the only person who might be richer than him is Alan Sugar, and I'm not even sure about that.

"You haven't, dear; you're only saying that because you don't want to see Sherlock. Now, give me his number."

I backed away from the door. There wouldn't be anything more worth listening to; Mycroft would eventually give his mother the number, allow himself to be badgered into coming for Christmas after all and then leave. Even if Sherwood or Hemlock or whatever his name was did agree to come over, I was sure he'd just be a lesser copy of his older brother. Stuck up, smarmy, stuffy and content just to sit around and discuss politics and current affairs. Manners impeccable. Old-fashioned. The kind of man who'd wear a suit and tie even on his day off and be polite and charming to everyone, even when he didn't really mean it.

I couldn't help being curious about him, though. Incredible as it sounds, I hadn't even realized I _had_ another brother; there were no family photographs of anyone except Mycroft and his mother. If Mycroft had been friendlier towards me, I would have waylaid him and peppered him with questions about this Sherlock, but as it was, I doubted he'd tell me anything.

I headed upstairs and into my room. I have my own phone, sort of; it's connected to the extension and so anyone else who picks up the landline can hear my conversations. Luckily, this went the other way.

I picked up my phone and waited until I heard someone dialing a number. I knew nobody would have heard me pick it up; Mrs Holmes never puts the receiver to her ear until she's actually finished dialing and Mycroft only ever uses his mobile. So long as I didn't breathe too heavily, no one would know.

I heard the phone on the other end ring, then someone picked it up.

"Hello?"

A man's voice. He didn't sound like a Holmes. Actually, he sounded quite nice.

"I want to speak to Sherlock." Mrs Holmes' voice had that haughty quality that only came out on the telephone. Kind of a _how DARE you not be the person I wanted to speak to_ voice.

"Right. Who's calling?"

"I am his _mother_," Mrs Holmes told him in a tone which now said how stupid she considered the man on the other end for not being aware of this fact.

"Oh! Um...okay. Hang on a minute." There was a brief pause, followed by him saying in a faint voice, "Sherlock? It's for you. Your, um, mother."

There was a very muffled exchange that I couldn't hear, then the man came back on again.

"Hello, Mrs Holmes? Um, I'm afraid Sherlock's not actually available at the moment—"

In the background, I heard a deep voice bellow, "I _am_ available, I just don't want to talk to her!"

"You may tell my son that I wish to speak to him about his brother."

"Yeah, okay. Sherlock? She says it's about your brother."

I heard Sherlock mutter something probably unrepeatable about '_darling Mycroft_', then he shouted, "Tell her to contact him directly!"

The first man didn't bother, perhaps because Sherlock's voice had been so loud he didn't have to.

"Tell my son that I _have_ contacted Mycroft. How else would I have got your number? And tell him I'm not calling about Mycroft; I'm calling about his other brother. His _younger_ brother."

Dimly I heard the stranger's voice in the background passing this on.

"_What_? Give me that." There was a pause, then Sherlock came on the line. "Mother, what an unpleasant surprise. And what's this nonsense about a brother? You're far too old to still be breeding; you must have hit the menopause all of five years ago and besides, you always swore you'd never love another man after my father was stupid enough to go and get himself decapitated in Borneo nearly three decades ago. Now what do you want?"

Wow, I thought. So much for being like Mycroft.

"Well, you couldn't possibly know, Sherlock, since you've never bothered to keep in touch, but last year I was approved to adopt."

"What _idiot_ made that decis—oh, of course. Mycroft. He pulled strings and you magically acquired the paperwork you needed a little faster than a normal woman."

Even through the extension, I could hear the rustle of clothes as Mrs Holmes drew herself upright.

"I didn't phone you to talk about Mycroft, Sherlock—"

"Well, there's a first."

"—I phoned to tell you that you will be coming here for Christmas and the New Year. You will arrive on the twenty third of December and remain here until the sixth of January, the exact same dates as Mycroft."

Short pause. "Oh, _will_ I?"

"Of course. It's about time you came back for a family Christmas dinner, and your new brother should meet you at some point."

"Why? He's only recently found out that I exist."

"No, Sherlock, he has no idea. I've never mentioned you to him and nor has Mycroft."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes. As ever, Mother, you don't bother to think. He hid in your pot plants and eavesdropped on your earlier conversation with Mycroft."

I froze, staring at the phone in my hand. How—no. There was no way this Sherlock guy could even have known Mrs Holmes and Mycroft had had any kind of conversation earlier, let alone that I'd been eavesdropping on it.

"Of course he didn't, Sherlock! Really, the things you say!"

"Well, why don't you ask him yourself, since he's listening in on the upstairs extension right now?"

I gasped and dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a clatter and I snatched it up and thrust it back onto the hook, then turned and fled.

I didn't hear any more about this Sherlock guy until next Sunday. I'd managed to avoid the morning's Mycroft Worship by shutting myself in my room straight after breakfast and pretending not to hear Mrs Holmes trilling my name. I hoped she wouldn't ask Mycroft to stay to dinner; whenever he's around, the stupid etiquette rules always triple. Not because he starts telling me how to behave, but because Mrs Holmes seems determined to show me off, or show off herself. Maybe that's it. Maybe she's trying to prove to her son what a good, responsible parent she is.

Oh, I don't know. The whole family's weird. I've given up trying to work out what any of them are thinking. All I cared about was that I'd avoided having to sit and be bored out of my skull for hours on end. I'd have to spend the day in my room (the drawing room was between my room and the kitchen, not to mention my room and the front door, and if Mrs Holmes heard me sneaking past I'd just be summoned inside) but that was a small price to pay.

I sat down at my desk and turned on my laptop, entered my password and froze.

The desktop picture of me and my family had disappeared, to be replaced with some kind of classic art. Not only that, everything that wasn't related to schoolwork had gone. All my games, all my photos, _everything_.

For a long time, all I could do was sit there and stare at it, too stunned to react. A shaky search for the missing files in every place I could think of turned up nothing. Whoever had gone in had deleted them completely. I didn't have any hard copies of the photographs; like an idiot I'd assumed that if I had them on my hard drive, I could print out copies any time I wanted. Now they were gone for good.

The cold feeling inside vanished so abruptly it was like someone had flicked a switch and I got to my feet, now sick with anger.

_Mycroft_. It couldn't be Mrs Holmes; she's a computer idiot who thinks that MSPaint is a top of the range graphics program. It had to be Mycroft.

At the time I didn't stop to wonder how Mycroft was supposed to have crept into my room without my noticing him considering he'd only ever been here during the day (and his doting mother never let him out of her sight), any more than I wondered why he'd want to do such a thing in the first place. Instead I just stormed downstairs and headed for the drawing room.

I had no idea what I was going to do until I'd slammed the door open, and then some outside force seemed to take control of my body. I barely registered the fact that there was a third person in the room; instead I stalked up to Mycroft, snatched his tea out of his hand and hurled the contents in his face.

"You _bastard_!" I yelled.

I'd never said that to anyone in my life, but this was something of a special case as far as I was concerned. I didn't wait around to see what effect my words had (something told me I wouldn't like it), but turned and stalked out, slamming the door behind me so hard that the windows rattled.

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><p><strong>Okay, that's it for the first chapter. Next up, a lot more Sherlock (and possibly John, haven't quite decided whether he's coming down for Christmas yet) ;) Hope you enjoyed it and if you read, please review!<strong>


	2. Of Hypothermia And Pizza

**TheMeddler: **Thanks XD And alright; if you want John to join Sherlock for Christmas, he'll be there (Only not just yet =P)

**GI06: **Wow, thanks :D And yes, I will definitely continue; the next chapter is half done (was going to be put in this one, but that would have made it just too long ;))

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><p>I didn't know where I was going. I just wanted <em>out<em>. Out of that house, out of the grounds.

I couldn't leave the grounds – the only way in or out is with a four digit access code, which nobody's told me – and so I headed into the furthest maze, slamming the door open and stalking through the hedges. It was easier finding my way around this time, thanks to the footprints I left in the snow.

I don't know how long it took me to get to the middle. I'd never done it before, and when I finally made it I was surprised to see what was there: a small circular garden, now mostly buried under the snow. There was a white gazebo at one end, several bare trees around the edges and some digging at a nearby smooth and sunken area of snow revealed a two foot moat around it, now frozen solid. It was probably a nice place in the summer.

I sat down in the gazebo and stared at nothing, mind in a whirl. I wondered if Sherlock had arrived yet. I hadn't heard anything to say he was or wasn't coming; Mrs Holmes hadn't been on the phone again, not since that first call. I knew she hadn't because I'd been listening in. I still wasn't holding out a whole lot of hope that he'd be friendlier than his brother, but at least he'd be a new face. Not many people visit the Holmeses. Mrs Holmes has a circle of friends who come over once a week, but none of them want anything to do with me.

I've no idea how much time passed before I decided to move, and even then it was only because snow had started falling again in huge, feathery clumps, and I wanted to get back to the house before it got too heavy.

I stood up, headed out of the gazebo toward the exit and very nearly walked smack into Mycroft and his umbrella (they're inseparable; I've never seen him without it, even on sunny days).

It was such a shock to see him standing and blocking the way out when I'd been positive I was alone that I fell back a few paces, heart suddenly pounding.

"How did _you_ get here?" I demanded.

"I walked." He stared at me, face coldly impassive. Now that I thought about it, I'd never seen him show any emotion.

Walked? That was impossible; the ground was covered with snow. And not just any snow, but the squeaky, crunchy kind. I'd been listening hard and I'd never heard anything that could come close to a footstep.

"Well, _I_ didn't hear you," I muttered.

"You weren't supposed to."

The way he said it sent an odd shiver down my spine, as though he could simply turn the sound of his own footsteps on and off at will. I wasn't afraid of him, not in the sense of him doing something to me now that we were alone, but his calmness unnerved me a little. He wasn't supposed to be calm! He was supposed to be angry, or upset, or guilty, or...or _something_!

"How long have you been there?"

"Since you started digging in the snow. You really did take the long way to the center, although I suppose that's not surprising."

I stared at him. I wasn't sure how long I'd been sitting in the gazebo, but the thought of Mycroft just standing there watching me and waiting for me to move sent another chill down my spine.

For some reason, the only thing I could think of to say to him was, "You mean you know your way through the maze?"

"Naturally. It was me who designed it."

Oh. My heart sank. Like an idiot, I hadn't thought about that.

"What do you want?" I demanded. I fought to keep my voice steady, although I'm not sure I managed it.

Mycroft gave a restrained sigh. "What do you _think_?"

"I think if you don't get outta my way, you're gonna regret it!" I said, as boldly as I could manage.

He raised his eyebrows. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"

His voice was odd, I remembered thinking later. There was no shock, no anger, no fear, no mockery; nothing, in fact, besides interest.

"Yep," I told him, although I had no idea what I was threatening him _with_. I'm tall for my age – I've managed to bluff my way into 15-rated films before now, even though my fourteenth birthday isn't until January – but I've never fought with anyone before and I didn't think Mycroft was a good person to start on. Besides, if he decided he didn't want to move out of the way, what could I do about it? Pelt him with snowballs?

"I see. You realize, of course, that the last person who attempted to threaten me spent the last few minutes of his life trying to learn how to breathe through a pair of punctured lungs."

I opened my mouth to protest this, caught sight of his expression and felt the words freeze in my throat. Mycroft's face hadn't changed from its normal mask, but somehow I knew he was serious. He wasn't challenging me or playing a game. I don't even think he said it to try and frighten me. He was simply stating a fact.

I licked my lips and said in a much quieter voice, "Let me out. Please."

"Not yet."

"I'm not going to apologize, if that's what you want." I said it half to him, half to my feet. Face to face, I was rapidly learning that Mycroft was a very difficult man to defy.

"I'm not in the least bit interested in your apologies. I'm waiting for an explanation."

"You went into my laptop! You went through it and you deleted everything!"

"No I didn't." Still no emotion, just another mechanical statement of fact.

"You're lying," I said, although even I could hear that I didn't sound certain. He didn't _look_ like he was lying.

"Am I? Why?" When I didn't answer right away, Mycroft asked, "Do you think I'm afraid of you?"

I blinked, surprised. I don't know why, but seeing Mycroft standing there in the snow, it was very hard to imagine him being afraid of anything.

"No," I said.

"Then why would I deny it? Oh, I deleted those games of yours, yes, but beyond that I've not the least interest in what you keep on your hard drive. Some kind of pointless websites and files, I imagine."

"And pictures." I glared at him as I said this, still not wholly convinced of his innocence.

"Really?" Mycroft didn't look at me, being more interested in knocking snow off the hedge with his umbrella. "What sort of pictures?"

"Photos. Of my family. Photos _you_ deleted!"

_That_ got his attention; he glanced around sharply.

"Ah. No wonder you were so emotional."

I didn't answer, just kept glaring at him, gritting my teeth so hard it hurt. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly he'd upset me.

"This may seem strange to you, Benedict, particularly in the light of what you've just done, but I don't have any desire to hurt you, either physically or emotionally. Yes, I went into your laptop and yes, I deleted your game files. But I never touched your photographs."

He didn't speak with any hint of smugness or mockery; just with a kind of simplicity that made it very hard to disbelieve him.

"Well, if _you _didn't do it, then who did?" I demanded.

"A very good question, Benedict. It's a pity you didn't stop to ask yourself that before you threw the tea in my face."

I stared at him. I couldn't think of anything to say; if he admitted to deleting my games, why not the photographs? Like he said, he couldn't really be afraid of anything I would say or do. All at once, I wanted out of this conversation. Slowly, never taking my eyes off him, I edged nearer to the gap in the hedge.

"Go on, if you want to," Mycroft told me, pulling out his phone. "I'm not going to come after you. I have far better things to do with my time."

He turned away and I walked past him with as much dignity as I could muster. Part of me wanted to run, although I didn't know why and I wasn't about to give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing he'd rattled me. If only he hadn't been so _quiet_.

I followed his tracks back through the maze and saw Mycroft's car idling outside. There was no sign of the driver; he must have driven down himself. Funny. I didn't think a Holmes would do anything as inconvenient as drive their own car.

A sudden impulse came on me. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Mycroft was nowhere to be seen, then rummaged in the snow until I found a stone. Looking around, ready to drop the stone and run at the first sign of a witness, I dug it into the side of his car and dragged it along, scratching the paintwork.

There. He'd deleted my games and probably my photos as well. I'd scratched that precious car of his. We were quits now.

I stared at the ugly scratch in the paintwork and suddenly felt afraid of what I'd done. Dropping the rock, I turned and broke into a run and didn't stop until I was back at the house and in my room. Given the size of the grounds and the fact that my bedroom's on the third floor, this wasn't as easy as it sounds.

I yanked off my shoes (no trainers, not for a _Holmes _boy, just shoes) and threw them at the door, then hurled myself on my bed to think. It didn't seem possible that Mycroft could be telling the truth about deleting my photos, especially given the fact that he admitted getting rid of my games. But then, as he'd said himself, why would he lie?

A few minutes later, I still couldn't figure it out and for want of something better to do, I grabbed my laptop and loaded my iTunes. At least Mycroft hadn't deleted that. Probably someone as old-fashioned as him didn't even know what it was. I plugged in my headphones, set the songs on random and slumped back on my bed to listen to Eminem.

I didn't go down for dinner, despite Mrs Holmes calling me. Instead I just turned the volume up on my headphones, lay there and waited until she shut up. I was starving – I hadn't eaten since breakfast – but I couldn't face her just then. Couldn't face the stupid lecture about good behavior I knew she was saving up for me, and _really_ couldn't face being forced to apologize to Mycroft.

In spite of the sound blasting down my headphones, I somehow managed to fall asleep.

When I woke up, I was in the maze.

It wasn't Mycroft's; his maze is always kept in immaculate condition by the gardeners, the hedges trimmed weekly to keep them neat. The hedges in _this_ maze towered above me, tall, dark and forbidding.

Panic shot through me and I stared around, my heart suddenly hammering in my throat. Not again. Not _here_.

I've always had a problem with sleepwalking, one I don't like to talk about. The first time was when my dad was killed, although it hadn't lasted long. The second was on my third night in my foster home (no, nothing happened; I don't know why it started then). That had stopped after about a month and I hadn't done it since, not until now.

Had I left the door to the maze open? Possibly, but I had no idea where I was, much less how to get back. Why had I sleepwalked _here_ anyway? It didn't make any sense.

I stumbled forward, trying not to wince as the snow bit into my bare feet, and did my best to follow my own footprints back. Snow was coming down thick and fast and I was freezing, my body so cold it hurt to move.

It was useless. The snow was falling too quickly, filling in the tracks I'd left. I made it around two corners and through one passage before I ran out of footprints. I kept trying, though. Kept shuffling on, taking turns completely at random in the crazy hope that one of them would lead me out. Deep down, I think I knew that there was no way I would get out of this maze before freezing to death, not unless I could somehow get help from outside.

I slowed as I reached a dead end, then drew in a long breath which burned my throat, and let it out in a scream. Not something I usually do but I was desperate and yelling words would have been a lot harder.

I turned around, thinking I'd keep searching for the exit, but my foot came down on a particularly icy patch and I slipped, tumbling sideways into a snowdrift. Getting up seemed like far too much effort and so I just lay there, waiting. The snow was soft, gentle and my body was numb enough that the cold wasn't such a problem. I'd get up in a minute, I told myself. Just another minute...

I don't know how long I was there, drifting in the cold and the haze. I was vaguely aware that I'd stopped shivering at some point. I didn't know if that was a good sign or not. Somehow it didn't seem important anymore.

A sudden noise woke my mind up a little. I tried to place it, but couldn't. Never mind. Too tired. Couldn't be important.

Seconds passed, then all of a sudden I felt hands on me, but distantly. Someone was turning my head to the side and supporting it from underneath, lifting it very slightly. Two fingers were placed on my neck and I winced; in my frozen state, it felt like they were burning.

A voice. Deep, distant, underwater. Talking nonsense and talking it too slowly. The last thing I was aware of was being lifted into the air, then everything faded around me.

* * *

><p>When I woke up, it was like swimming up through a vat of treacle. I was lying on something hard, and someone had wrapped several layers of blankets around me, along with bundling me in a very long coat. It was soft, and I was warm, but something didn't feel right.<p>

I glanced around, trying to work out where I was and failing. It was small, open plan and cozy (mostly thanks to the fire that was going). An old looking couch was in front of a large, boxy TV and several photographs were scattered around on various shelves that had been fixed onto the walls. I couldn't make out any of the people in them, but I probably wouldn't have recognized them if I had.

"Oh good. You're finally awake. It's about time."

Deep voice. Cultured. Vaguely familiar. I could understand what it was saying this time, although it still sounded muffled.

I stared at the speaker, who was sitting in front of the fire working on his mobile and looking completely at ease in his surroundings. Tall. Dark hair. Cold eyes.

"Whass...time?" I managed. My voice was slurred and I swallowed, working my jaw.

"Five past nine. You've been out for about an hour."

I coughed several times, took a few deep breaths and tried again.

"Do you work here?" I asked, a little more clearly. That was all I could think of, that he was one of the gardeners who had decided to take a late evening stroll and heard me. It would also explain why I thought I'd heard his voice before.

He looked a little amused at the question. "No."

I waited, but he didn't say any more. Maybe he was a burglar?

"If you let me go, I won't tell anyone you were here," I tried. "You can just slip out. I can show you a back way out so no one'll see you." I couldn't – the Holmes estate is walled up like Fort Knox – but he didn't know that.

"Mm. Very tempting, but I would probably be missed."

We spent a few minutes in silence, me lying on the table and feeling awkward, him beeping on his mobile phone.

"Where am I?" I asked, when I couldn't stand the quiet any longer.

"You're in the gardener's cottage. I prefer staying here to being up at the house, so I gave him and his family some spending money and moved them out for two weeks."

I frowned, trying to make sense of this. "Where?"

"A five star hotel in town. Nice place, I've been there a time or two myself."

I shifted my weight, glancing around. I'd never been in any of the staff quarters – that's apparently a _big_ no-no, and I wasn't all that interested in seeing them anyway – so I had no way of knowing if this stranger was telling the truth or not.

"How did I get down here?" I asked.

"I was out for an evening walk and I heard you screaming. Found you half dead with hypothermia in a corner of my maze and brought you back here."

And that was that. He might just as well have been talking about going to the supermarket for all the emotion he showed.

"Shouldn't I be in hospital?" It took a little effort to get the last word out without slurring it into incoherency, but a lot of concentration on my part did the trick.

"Hypothermia's not that difficult to treat, so long as you know what you're doing. I got some advice from a friend of mine. From what I can see you've managed to avoid frostbite, though I'm not sure how. You're awake and talking, which is more than you were when I found you, so that's a good sign. We'll see how you are in the morning. If you're no better than you are now or if you take a turn for the worse during the night, I'll call an ambulance."

I frowned, trying to bully my fragile mind into telling me where I'd heard this man's voice before.

"Do I know you?" I asked. I already knew the answer was _no – _I was sure I'd remember meeting him – but it seemed the politest way of saying that I didn't have a clue who he was.

"You eavesdropped on my phone call last week. And we have seen each other once before, although it's hardly surprising you've forgotten since you were trying to drown my dear brother in tea at the time."

It took my still muggy brain a few minutes to put this all together, then the answer hit me and I stared at him.

"You're—" what was his name?— "Sherlock? _You're_ my other brother?"

"So I've been informed," Sherlock answered, not bothering to look up from what he was doing.

It made sense. Who else but a Holmes would commandeer someone's home for two weeks and move them out into a hotel, just to suit themselves? Though having said that, I don't think the gardener put up much of a fight; if it came down to a choice between spending Christmas and New Year here, or in a five star hotel with some spending money, I know which one I'd pick.

"But..." I began, then hesitated.

"But?" he prompted.

"You don't _look_ like Mycroft."

Yeah, I know. It was a stupid thing to say. Blame the hypothermia. Anyway, attitude aside, I really had expected Sherlock to look just like a younger version of his brother.

"Why should I? We're brothers, not twins." Sherlock glanced at me, looked me up and down, and then went back to his phone. "And you're not exactly similar yourself."

"I'm adopted!"

He smiled a little at that. "True."

He was certainly right about my not looking like one of the family though; from what I'd seen, the Holmeses tend towards dark hair, and Sherlock's in particular was dark enough to pass for black in certain lights. My hair is a kind of dirty blonde and always messy. At least, it was until I came here and Mrs Holmes insisted that I get it cut. I didn't actually mind that much; at least now it's not flopping in my eyes and it's a lot easier to look after. I don't even have to brush it.

I half turned over to try and face him, the blankets rubbing against my bare skin. _That's_ what felt strange, I realized with a shock; I was naked. I wasn't sure how I'd imagined my first meeting with Sherlock, but being naked and cocooned in blankets and a long coat on the gardener's kitchen table really hadn't been part of it.

"Where are my clothes?" I demanded.

He raised his chin to indicate something beyond my right shoulder, never taking his eyes off his phone. "Drying. They were soaked right through; I had to get them off you, otherwise you'd have just got worse."

"You...took my clothes off?" I said it slowly, not wanting to believe it.

"Yes."

"My clothes? _All_ my clothes?"

There was an amused look on his face as he replied, "You're a boy, and I'm a man; it's nothing that I haven't seen before."

I gawked at him. "But...I'm _naked_!"

"Yes, I believe we've established that. Moving on." Snapping his phone closed, he dropped it onto the table and looked at me fully for the first time. "How are you feeling?"

"I want to go back to the house."

He returned to his phone. "Go, then. I'm not stopping you."

"But I'm _naked_!"

Sherlock jerked his head. "Take my coat."

I glanced down at my bare feet, which were throbbing hard from my little outing in the snow.

"W-what about shoes?" I asked.

"I don't think mine would fit you." He raised his eyebrows. "Of course, you could always do the smart thing and stay here."

No way. I didn't think I was in any danger from Sherlock, but I just wanted to be back in my own room, in my own bed. My body felt light, as though someone else was controlling it, but it couldn't be that far to the house. I was sure I could make it.

I swung both my legs over the table, slid off, and tried to run for the door.

I'd got four steps when my legs buckled and I fell. Or at least, I started to fall; Sherlock caught hold of me before I hit the ground. Acting more on instinct than intention, I grabbed at his arm for support. Instead of the semi-flab I'd been expecting, I felt rock hard muscle. Physically, Sherlock was a lot tougher than he looked.

"Come on. Can you walk?"

I took a step. Big mistake. Hot pain flashed up my ankle and I grabbed at him again, almost pulling him down with me.

"Clearly not." Sherlock sighed, the short sigh of a man faced with an unpleasant task. "Alright."

Before I knew what he was going to do, he'd swung me into his arms and dumped me on the table. Yes, this guy was _definitely_ stronger than he looked.

"Stay there," he ordered, then pulled out his phone and dialed a number. "John, me again. You know that hypothermia I called you about? Well, it seems we now have a bad ankle to add to it...Yes, the little idiot tried to run."

I scowled at him. Idiot was bad enough, but _little_ idiot was uncalled for!

"Look, when _are_ you coming down? I'm bored out of my mind here."

He listened to the reply, then rolled his eyes. "Alright. I suppose that'll have to do, but no later! If I have to sit through another batch of Hail Mycrofts, I think my brain will melt. Just tell me what to do here and you can take over when you arrive...No, I put him on the kitchen table."

I opened my mouth to ask why, but apparently John, whoever he was, beat me to it. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "The couch is too low and I dislike kneeling. The kitchen table is the ideal height for me to administer any kind of treatment he might need. Now stop boring me with stupid questions and tell me what I need to do." Another pause, then Sherlock said, "Yes, that's very amusing, John; however, I _was_ speaking with reference to the current situation...Yes...Alright, fine. I'm sure there's some around here I can use. And get down here!"

He ended the call, slipped his phone into his pocket and turned back to me.

"Who's John?" I asked.

"Friend of mine. He's a doctor, and probably the only person who can keep me sane in this place."

He reached out for my ankle. Without knowing why, I drew it back, out of his reach.

Sherlock didn't say anything, didn't do anything apart from look at me and hold out his hand expectantly.

I stared at him, unsure.

"I know what I'm doing, now let me see it."

Hesitantly, I let him take hold of my foot.

"Good. Now, let me know when this starts to hurt."

Face impassive, he began to slowly rotate my ankle.

I don't know why what happened next happened, only that it was a knee-jerk reaction. Maybe it was because I still felt dazed from everything that had happened. Maybe I was a little nervous about being rescued by someone who had stripped me naked and wrapped me in his coat. Whatever it was, the instant I felt a bolt of pain flash up my ankle, my other leg shot out to kick him in the face.

Or tried to, at any rate. Faster than I could follow, Sherlock's hand snapped across and caught hold of my foot in mid-kick.

"Yes, while I do admire your zeal, a simple _ouch_ would have been sufficient," he informed me.

I shifted my weight and muttered, "Sorry."

"No you're not." He let go of me and straightened up, then went and busied himself at the counter. I couldn't see what he was doing; my vision kept fluttering in and out of focus. All I could do was lie there and wait while he put whatever it was in the microwave.

Half a minute later, it dinged and he took out a mug, lifted it to his lips, sipped at it, then nodded and brought it over to me.

"Here." He slid an arm underneath me and pushed me into a sitting position, then handed me the mug. "Drink this. Shouldn't be too hot."

I took a mouthful and grimaced. Hot chocolate. Sherlock was right about it not being too hot, but it was about five times sweeter than I like and I could feel my throat itching. I started to place it on the side, but Sherlock caught hold of it on the way and pushed it back towards me.

"No, drink it all; you're still hypothermic and I don't want you collapsing on me. I'm going to get something for your ankle and I want that mug empty when I get back."

"Why hot chocolate?" I demanded.

"Because you don't like tea. Now shut up and drink."

This was true, although I had no idea how he knew. Had Mycroft or Mrs Holmes emailed him or something?

Sherlock didn't seem inclined to tell me; he just turned and walked away, no doubt to get the 'something' he'd been talking about.

I managed to down half of it before he returned with a roll of bandage and a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a teacloth.

"Have you finished it?"

I took another huge gulp of the too-sweet chocolate. "Almost."

"Almost isn't good enough. Hurry up."

I chugged the rest of it down and set the mug on the side. Sherlock glanced in it.

"Good." He took it and set it out of the way, then reached out for my ankle.

I drew it up to my chest, fast. I didn't want Sherlock messing with it, not if he was going to try the whole rotation thing again. Maybe he'd needed to do it for some kind of medical reason, but that didn't matter. It _hurt_.

A flicker of irritation passed over his face, although his voice was as even as ever.

"Give it back," he instructed me. "I'm not interested in playing games with you. Or would you rather I go and wake Mycroft, let him deal with this?"

No, I would not. Mycroft was the last person in the world I wanted to see. I didn't think he'd want to help someone who had called him a bastard and thrown tea in his face. I couldn't really blame him.

"That's blackmail," I muttered as I let him examine me again.

"No," Sherlock informed me as he drew my ankle towards him and began wrapping a bandage around it, "it's coercion. It wouldn't be blackmail unless I threatened to tell Mycroft that you were the one who scratched his car with that rock."

I stared at him, uncertain. It had been me, he was right, but...how did he know? More importantly, was he going to tell Mycroft?

"What do you want?" I asked him.

He glanced up at me, surprised. "Want?"

"Not to tell him about it."

He returned to bandaging my ankle. "Oh, the look on my dear brother's face when you threw that tea at him is _quite_ enough payment for me. You needn't worry about any reprisals for that, by the way."

"Why not?" I demanded. Not that I wanted any, but Mycroft had never struck me as the forgiving type.

"Because he thinks I put you up to it. Your timing, incidentally, couldn't have been more perfect; seconds before you came in, Mother had been bragging about how she'd taught you nice manners and good behavior, and how you were finally starting to behave as a member of the Holmes family ought to. I suppose I can't really argue with her, given your apparent penchant for sneaking around and listening in on other people's private phone calls."

I frowned. "Yeah, how did you know I was listening?"

"How do you think?" he answered, not looking over (he was now adding the frozen peas to my ankle).

I thought about it for a few minutes – not easy; my mind was clearing, but still quite fogged over – and then said slowly, "You heard me. I thought I was being quiet—"

"You were. The grandfather clock wasn't. Mother always telephones from downstairs and she always keeps the door closed since she doesn't want the staff knowing her business. The only way I could have heard the clock so distinctly in the background was if someone was listening in on the upstairs extension. The staff aren't allowed to use the family phones without supervision, bit of an archaic rule but there you go, and Mycroft would have no reason at all to eavesdrop. You were the only one it could have been."

I stared at him, my jaw hanging, then said, "Okay, but how did you know I was eavesdropping on her and Mycroft earlier?"

"If you'd picked up the phone to make a call, I would have heard the click. _You_ picked up the phone and waited. You knew she was going to be making a phone call and you knew it was one you wanted to listen in on. The family never discuss me in front of outsiders, so the only possible way you could have known that Mother was going to call me was if you'd heard her talking about it beforehand. Nothing but the drawing room is good enough for brother Mycroft and that has a glass paneled door, so you'd have to hide somewhere if you wanted to eavesdrop as anyone who came along and saw you would blow your cover immediately. So, where can you hide close enough to the door to listen in? Among the pot plants." He finished positioning the peas on my ankle. "There you are; simple."

I stared at him, not sure whether he was referring to his treatment of my ankle or his own deductions.

"You..." I swallowed. "You knew all that just because you _didn't_ hear me pick up the extension?"

"Yes, of course. Obvious."

I kept staring at him, past caring about things like good manners. Who _was_ this guy?

"Can Mycroft do what you just did?" I asked him.

Sherlock's face closed up at the mention of Mycroft.

"A little," he said curtly.

I started to ask him where he'd learned it, but at that point someone rapped hard on the door and I jumped out of my skin instead.

"Who's that?"

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the door. "Dinner, I expect. That new cook really isn't up to par – I don't know where my mother got her from – so I made my own arrangements for tonight."

I swallowed, aware for the first time of a certain gnawing pain in my stomach.

"No, I don't mind if you have some as well; they always cook too much for me anyway." Sherlock opened the door, handed some money over to the person on the other side with a, "Thank you, keep the change," took the food and slammed the door shut again. I couldn't see it from my current position, but it smelt wonderful.

"What's that?"

"Pizza Hut. Not really my kind of food to be honest with you, but I couldn't be bothered to drive out and buy something, and they're the only place close enough to deliver." Sherlock turned and deposited a small box and a large bottle of Coke next to me.

My jaw dropped, which wasn't a good thing considering I was in serious danger of drooling. I hadn't tasted pizza for _months_.

"Did you get any starters? Or dessert?"

"Just pizza. I wasn't expecting company for dinner tonight. You can have the Coke if you want it. I never drink that stuff; they just sent it as some kind of special offer. Be a shame to waste it."

I didn't wait to be asked twice. Coke is another thing a Holmes boy isn't allowed to drink (water, juice, lemonade, ginger beer and squash are all fine, but not Coke. I think Mrs Holmes is stuck in a time warp). Before he had a chance to change his mind, I grabbed the bottle, unscrewed the top and chugged as much of it as I could in one go, then opened the pizza box and dived in.

Sherlock ate elegantly, which isn't easy when you're eating pizza with your fingers, but at least he didn't comment on the way _I_ ate either, although given how I was wolfing it down, even I could admit he had a right to. After having my manners criticized at every single meal, including breakfast, it was a refreshing change.

We ate in silence, but it was a nice silence, not awkward. Sherlock didn't seem inclined to talk, and...well, my mouth was stuffed so full of pizza that I don't think he would have understood me even if I had said something.

It didn't take long to finish the pizza – it was only a small one – and when it was done, Sherlock, to my astonishment, picked up the empty box and took it to the dustbin.

"Don't you have someone to pick up after you?" I asked before I could stop myself. I didn't think a Holmes even knew there _was _such a thing as a dustbin, let alone what to do with it.

"Yes, but he's still in London. Bit of a trek to come just to throw out an empty pizza box, even by my standards."

His use of the word _trek_ reminded me that I was still a long way from my own bedroom. I couldn't face the walk back up to the house, especially not with my ankle.

"Sherlock?" I stumbled a little over his name. Wasn't _anyone_ in this family called Mark, or Steve, or...or something _sane_?

He half turned to look at me over his shoulder. "Hm?"

"Can I...is it okay if I sleep here tonight? On the couch?"

"You can sleep where you like," Sherlock answered, "so long as it isn't in my room. Goodnight."

I badly wanted to ask him if he'd help me over to the couch – my ankle was now throbbing with agony – but he'd gone into the bedroom and shut the door before I had the chance.

I took the peas off my ankle and managed to slither off the table onto the floor. Hobbling to the couch took a little more effort, especially since I needed one hand to hold the blankets around me (it's difficult to fix them around your waist when you're balancing on one foot and holding onto pieces of furniture to stay upright; try it sometime). Eventually I made it and half sat, half collapsed onto it, then let myself fall slowly sideways and closed my eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, that's it for this chapter ;) Hope you liked it and if you read, please review!<strong>


	3. A Family Meal

**Hehe: **Thanks, glad you liked it :)

**GI06: **Thanks XD Yeah...somehow a conventional introduction wouldn't do for Sherlock ;)

* * *

><p>"Benedict?"<p>

That hated name again. I muttered something that I bet no one has _ever_ said to a Holmes before and snuggled deeper into the couch. I was in a nice warm place somewhere between sleeping and waking, and I didn't much want to leave it.

"Benedict?"

"_Ben_," I growled, opening my eyes just enough to glare at the couch.

"Yes, whatever," Sherlock said impatiently. "We've been summoned to the house for dinner."

"Oh. Okay. Have a good time." I buried my face in the couch, pulled my blankets up around my ears and tried to find my warm place again.

I'd barely had time to close my eyes when Sherlock took hold of my blankets and pulled them down to my waist.

"I said _we_, not _I_," he told me. "Your clothes should be dry by now and I brought some shoes down this morning."

I yawned. "Don't _wanna_ go to th' house."

"No, neither do I. However, the sooner we go to this dull meal, the sooner it'll be over, so do you think you could _try_ to stop acting like a sulky three year old long enough to get to the dining room? How are you feeling?"

I opened my mouth.

"And don't lie," Sherlock added.

"Tired," I said, glaring at him.

"Besides that."

I frowned a little as I considered it, trying to pin down an answer.

"Okay. But kinda...light. You know, like when you get a cold and you're not really with it."

"Mm. Well, I shouldn't worry; nobody's going to depend on you for witty conversation at the dinner table. Mother's quite capable of holding a discussion by herself, especially when she has darling Mycroft for her subject. Get dressed. How's your ankle?"

"Painful," I answered, which wasn't a lie; it hurt a lot worse than it did last night. "Might have to carry me."

Well, he hadn't seemed too happy about lifting me onto the table last night. Maybe the thought of carrying me all the way up to the house would convince him to leave me behind.

"Mm, no. Thank you for the offer, but I'd really rather drive you."

Or not.

"Are you throwing me out?" I demanded.

"Yes. Now hurry up and get dressed!"

Oh. So much for thinking I'd found a potential friend in this new brother. And yet I hadn't had all these blankets when I'd gone to sleep, so at some point he must have come back and covered me over. Maybe he was just in a bad mood.

"My ankle hurts," I muttered.

"Yes, you said."

No sympathy from him, then. Groaning, I started to sit up.

A monstrous bolt of agony shot up from my ankle and I yelped before I could stop myself. Gently, half afraid of what I was going to see, I pulled the blankets up from around my feet and felt my heart stop.

My ankle was swollen to twice its normal size, like someone had inflated the skin from within. I stared at it, my throat suddenly dry. I'd twisted my ankle before – it happens sometimes when you're playing football – but it had never looked like _this_.

"Sherlock!" It was a squeak.

Sherlock turned, clearly irritated. "Oh, what _now_?"

"My ankle..." I swallowed, unable to stop staring at it. "Do you think it's broken?"

Sherlock glanced at my ankle. "Of course it's not broken, or I'd never have been able to rotate it like I did last night. You didn't fall again, did you?"

I shook my head.

"Alright. Looks like I'll have to carry you to the car." Sherlock didn't sound too happy at the thought.

"You could just leave me behind," I hinted.

"If it were up to me, I might consider it. As it is, there's really no point; if I don't bring you up to the house, then Mycroft or one of the staff will. Besides, you've been here all day and you need to eat something."

"I can eat something here," I tried.

"No." Sherlock tossed my trousers at me. "I don't expect you'll be able to put your shoes on with your ankle in that state, but the rest of it shouldn't be too much of a problem."

I tried, but when it came to pulling them on over my ankle, I discovered they wouldn't fit around the swelling.

"Sherlock—" I began.

He glanced at me, took in the situation and picked up a pair of kitchen scissors. I barely had time to blink before he'd come over and cut my trouser leg off at the knee.

"How's that?"

I gawked at him, not quite believing what he'd done. Mrs Holmes had ordered several new outfits brought in when I came along (nice Holmes boys don't wear jeans, apparently)and I'd seen the price tags. The pair Sherlock had just shortened were over two hundred pounds.

"Your mum's gonna kill me!"

"No she won't. She'll be delighted at the thought of being able to take you clothes shopping, though I do appreciate there isn't much to choose between that and a slow, lingering demise. Besides, you didn't cut your trousers; I did. You can just blame me."

I had no intention of doing anything else, but I didn't think it would be a good idea to say so and I pulled my new shorts on. A little searching on Sherlock's part turned up a pair of flip flops that he seemed to think would do for me. I wasn't so sure – they were dirty, two sizes too big and I could just imagine Mrs Holmes' face if I walked into the house wearing them – but I didn't quite have the nerve to say so to Sherlock.

Walking was agony. Even with Sherlock's help, just getting from the couch to the front door drained me and I had to stop for a few seconds before going outside. More snow had fallen (and was still falling) but someone – possibly Sherlock, although I doubted it – had cleared a path to the car.

When we reached the car, I was expecting Sherlock to do something like open the door and toss me inside, and had seized his sleeve in a death grip just in case, but instead he was surprisingly gentle and managed to settle me in the seat without jolting my ankle too much.

The drive back to the house only took five minutes, but it seemed to drag on forever. I wished Sherlock had left me back at the cottage, or at least was taking me back so I could go to bed instead of having to sit through a three course meal. Things got worse when we actually got inside, as Mycroft was standing in the hall and working on something on his phone. He glanced up, frowning as he saw the two of us there. I wanted to hang back, but Sherlock strode forward and pulled me with him, a smile on his face.

"Mycroft, good evening! Ben and I have just been getting acquainted out in the garden."

Mycroft glanced at me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noticed my ankle and flip flops. He opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock got there first.

"You know, I didn't notice it yesterday, but you're looking well. _Very_ well, in fact. Have you lost weight?"

Mycroft looked astonished, as though he wasn't used to this kind of greeting from Sherlock. "I...yes, in fact."

"Excellent." Sherlock looked down. "So that's...what? Another thirty pounds to go? Splendid."

He clapped the suddenly poker-faced Mycroft on the shoulder and pushed by him, half supporting, half towing me behind.

We'd got as far as the dining room door when Mycroft spoke up.

"Interesting. You realize, of course, that for the boy's ankle to have swollen that much, it would have to have happened some time ago. What _have_ you been doing with yourself, Benedict?"

"Ben," I mumbled to Sherlock's bicep. I wasn't sure enough of Mycroft's nature to speak out loud, but even correcting him under my breath made me feel better.

"And just why are you wearing those?" Mycroft asked, nodding towards the flip flops.

I wasn't sure how to answer that, but luckily I had Sherlock.

"Well, he could hardly go out in all that snow barefoot, could he? Really, Mycroft, show a little common sense!"

Mycroft opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it again as Sherlock supported me into the dining room. I was glad to sit down; my ankle felt like someone had pushed rusty nails into it. Despite sleeping through the night and most of the day, I was still tired and couldn't do anything except long for the couch in the gardener's cottage. It wasn't a very soft couch, but for some reason I'd slept better there than I had in my own bed.

I didn't think I'd be lucky enough to get it, though. Nor did I think that Sherlock would be kind enough to carry me upstairs to my room; from what I'd seen so far, I thought he'd escape the house as soon as he could and I'd be left to hobble up two flights of stairs as best I could. The banisters were solid; maybe I could hang on one of them as a crutch when the time came.

Sherlock plonked himself down next to me, took a bread roll and dropped another on my plate.

"Eat."

Did anyone in this family ever _ask_ you to do something, or did they just speak in orders? I was too tired to protest, though, and so I just picked up the roll and started nibbling at it.

The food, when it came (roast chicken, vegetables and roast potatoes) was bad. _I_ could have cooked it better. I've no idea how to cook a roast, but I'm sure I could have cooked it better.

The conversation, however, was the best I'd had since arriving here.

"Sherlock, you must have some sprouts."

"I don't eat sprouts."

Mrs Holmes sniffed. "Well, I'm giving you some anyway. Benedict, pass your brother the sprouts."

Sherlock glanced at me. "No, don't bother. I'll just push them aside and then Mother will end up boring everyone at this table with another of her interminable lectures on _waste_. Mycroft, pass me the bread."

Mycroft smirked a little and made no move to pass his brother anything.

"What's the magic word, Sherlock?"

I watched, fascinated, as Sherlock fixed Mycroft with a dangerous stare and said clearly, "Tisbury Court, last Monday, half past—_thank_ you," he interrupted himself as Mycroft grabbed the bread basket and thrust it at him. Sherlock took two bread rolls, dropped a third on my plate, then tossed the basket carelessly back onto the table.

I looked from one to the other, confused. "What? Why were you in court?" Seeing Mycroft had no intention of answering me, I turned to Sherlock. "Was he in trouble?"

His lips quirked with cool amusement. "In a manner of speaking. Let's just say that your adoptive brother has been a _very_ naughty boy."

"Sherlock!"

"Oh, don't worry, brother dear. _I_ don't tell people's secrets."

"If your people followed me, Sherlock, then you'll know that that _wasn't_ why I went in there. I wanted to meet someone."

"Mm. That _is_ generally why people go to that part of Soho," Sherlock agreed.

I stared at him. I've never been to London, but even I know about Soho.

"What, you mean he was with a—"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Benedict," Mycroft interrupted, despite the fact that I hadn't touched my food yet. "And no, I wasn't." He stared hard at Sherlock and added, "As you well know, _dear_ brother. No, it was work-related."

Sherlock smirked and didn't answer.

"Mycroft was telling his dear mother how busy he's been at work," Mrs Holmes said sweetly, smiling at the favorite son. "He's had to hire an extra five people just to help him."

"Really?" Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft, who looked very much as though he wanted to gag his dear mother with a fork.

"Yes. I'm sure if you asked him, dear Mycroft could find you a suitable job as well, Sherlock."

"Got too much on." Sherlock fixed his brother with a cold stare. "Besides, I've already had ample experience of dear Mycroft's _help_. I'm not interested, and I don't know _what_ I have to do to get the message home to him. Throw myself off a building, perhaps? _Mycroft_?"

To my astonishment, Mycroft actually turned pale.

"Oh, Sherlock, as if your older brother would _ever_ put you in that kind of position! That's the silliest thing I've heard in a long time!"

"Yes." Sherlock now seemed intent on trying to freeze Mycroft with his eyes. "I couldn't agree more."

"Well, if you won't let Mycroft look after you and get you a nice job, don't come to _me_ for any kind of support!"

Sherlock never took his eyes off Mycroft as he answered, "I've never gone to you for any kind of support in my life."

"That's not true, Sherlock, you and your brother have _always_ had my support—"

"No, we've always had your _money_. There's a difference." Sherlock sloshed water into his empty wine glass, hacked off a piece of chicken, speared it on his fork and dunked it in the glass.

"_Sherlock_!" Mrs Holmes exclaimed. I couldn't blame her. Even I was shocked.

"What? It's dry as a bone!"

"Which is why we have _gravy_," Mycroft said with an insincere smile. "Speaking of which, Sherlock, would you pass me some?"

"Certainly, brother dear. One lump or two?"

I choked, and tried very hard not to laugh. I have to admit, I was glad Sherlock had refused to let me stay behind. Even with the pain from my ankle, this was the most fun I'd had in months.

In the silence that followed, Mrs Holmes said something which killed any desire I had to laugh.

"You know, Sherlock, Benedict's very keen to go and work for Mycroft as soon as he finishes Oxford."

"Am I?" I said before I could stop myself. This was the first I'd heard about it, and it wasn't much consolation to see that Mycroft looked just as taken aback. It was bad enough having him dumped on me as an older brother, but a _boss_? And work in his...his...well, whatever it was? I still wasn't clear on that point, although based on Mycroft's clothes and the way he spoke and acted, I thought he might be some kind of bank manager.

We looked at each other and, for the first time since I'd met him, Mycroft and I were in complete agreement about something, namely that it would be a cold day in hell before I came to work for him.

Sherlock glanced at me and said unsmilingly, "If I were you, I'd run while there's still time."

"_Sherlock_!" Mrs Holmes rose to her feet and pointed. "Leave the table at _once_!"

"What for?" Sherlock hooked the vegetable dish with his fork and pulled it towards him, then started piling a selection onto his plate.

"If you think for one moment that I will allow you to disrupt this family meal—"

"You _summoned _me to this family meal, remember?" Sherlock interrupted through a mouthful of carrots. He washed the food down with a gulp of water, then went on a little more clearly. "It's been a number of years since we last saw each other. I would have thought you'd be a little less judgmental. Pass me the bread, Ben, it's about the only part of this damn meal that's remotely edible."

I passed him the bread obligingly, then offered it to Mycroft, who waved it away, and to Mrs Holmes, who just ignored me.

"I don't know why you got rid of Mrs Wilson, Mother," Sherlock continued. "She may not have been as obsequious as you like your staff, but at least _she_ knew how to cook. Put one of these roast potatoes in a sock and you could hospitalize a man." A thoughtful expression crept into his eyes. "Maybe I'll try it."

"The inside is very nice, Sherlock."

"Yes, I'll have to take your word for that, Mother, since I left my jackhammer in London. You might want to explain to your new cook the difference between _crisp _and _crunchy_ at some point." Sherlock finished the bread and grabbed another piece.

"Now Sherlock, that's enough bread. You haven't _touched_ your peas."

"On the contrary, Mother, I have touched them, which is how I know I don't want to eat them."

Mycroft's knuckles whitened on his fork, and I wondered if he was dreaming of stabbing his brother with it.

"Is it too much to ask for you to be civil for even _one_ meal?" he demanded. "Just until dessert?"

"Probably," Sherlock answered. "What are we having, anyway?"

"You know better than to ask that, _dear_ brother."

Sherlock snorted and didn't answer.

"Will Dr. Watson be joining us, Sherlock?" Mrs Holmes asked, in tones which suggested she hoped the answer would be _no_.

"Yes; John's coming tomorrow morning, about nine-ish."

Tomorrow. With a sudden dull feeling of surprise, I realized tomorrow was Christmas Day. Usually I'd be on pins and needles, but this time...I don't know. It just seemed so different. We had a tree – boy, did we have a tree; it was fifteen feet tall – but it had been put up and decorated by the staff. They'd done a great job, but still, what kind of Christmas was it where you didn't get to put up your own tree and make fun of everyone else's taste in decorations?

I'd already been told what to expect on the day itself. Presents would be placed outside bedroom doors. Since I don't have any pocket money, I hadn't bought anything for Mrs Holmes (and as for Mycroft, forget it!) but a small part of me wanted to buy something for Sherlock, although I had no idea what.

"Well, I hope Dr. Watson isn't expecting there to be any empty guest bedrooms in _this_ house."

"There are seven empty guest bedrooms in this house, Mother, but don't worry. John and I will stay in the gardener's cottage; I made up the spare room for him."

Mrs Holmes sighed. "You _know_ I don't like you being so antisocial, Sherlock. Mycroft, tell him he's got to sleep at the house."

"Mycroft, tell our mother that I would rather cut off my leg with a rusty chainsaw than spend a single pecosecond in this house, much less in her company."

"Mycroft, tell your brother he's not to speak to me like that!"

"Tell each other yourselves!" Mycroft said tersely while I tried not to laugh. "I said you shouldn't invite him, Mother."

"Mother, tell Mycroft that you didn't invite me; you ordered me to attend."

I wondered what would happen if I joined in this conversation, then decided against it. Part of me didn't want to antagonize Mycroft any more than I had already, and I didn't want to upset Sherlock either; he was the only Holmes I'd met that I thought I could get to like.

"Benedict, tell Sherlock—"

I never heard what Mycroft wanted me to tell Sherlock, since at that moment the doors opened and Mrs Parker came in with a type of dessert known as a floating island, which I really don't like. I guess if someone who knew how to cook prepared it, it might taste nice, but Mrs Parker is not that someone. Last time I ate one of her floating islands I was actually sick.

She set one in front of Mrs Holmes and another in front of me, but I pushed it away and said, "No thank you."

Mrs Parker drew her lips in. She always does that when she disapproves of something. I think she believes it makes her look stern and imperious. In fact, it makes her look like she's been sucking on a lemon, but I haven't worked up the nerve to tell her yet.

She didn't say a word, however, but moved around the table to Mycroft, who also refused dessert with a curt flick of his hand, not even looking at her.

"God, no!" Sherlock exclaimed when Mrs Parker tried to serve the dessert to him. "Haven't you insulted our digestions enough for one night?"

Mrs Parker turned and walked out, back stiff. If she'd been nicer to me, I would've felt sorry for her. It can't be easy making desserts that nobody wants to eat.

"Sherlock, you're not to speak to the staff like that! I like my children to be _polite_."

"By my standards, Mother, not to mention those of this family, that _was_ polite. What did you say to Mrs Wilson again? You know, that time when she burned your toast?"

"Well, if and when you take over this estate, you can hire whoever you wish as cook. Until then, the decision still rests with me."

Something happened then, something which gave me a nasty sense of foreboding. Mycroft and Sherlock's eyes flicked to me, just for an instant, then back to each other. There was no animosity in their look this time, but a kind of understanding along the lines of _Oh, so THAT's it_.

I glanced from one to the other, unsure. Mycroft shot me another quick look, then turned back to Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows in a way which said, _Well?_

Mycroft replied with a _no way am I getting involved in this one_ expression and looked away, sipping at his wine. When I looked at Sherlock, he gave me something that I think was supposed to be a smile and reached out for the bread again. Mrs Holmes was apparently oblivious to the silent conversation her two sons had just had, which was a shame since it seemed like the first conversation they'd had without trying to score points off each other.

I wasn't about to ask questions, at least not in front of Mrs Holmes, but I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that Sherlock and Mycroft knew something about me and/or my adoption that I didn't.

I waited until Mrs Holmes started talking about coffee, then I excused myself as best I could and hobbled out of the room. I may as well have been invisible. Mrs Holmes ignored me and Sherlock and Mycroft were intent on another silent conversation – or possibly an argument – which, if the glances they kept flicking in my direction were anything to go by, was about me.

I don't know how long it took me to get up the two flights of stairs to my bedroom. It felt like hours. Every time I went up a step, it sent a fresh burst of pain along my ankle. I wished I'd thought to ask Sherlock for some Nurofen.

Eventually I made it into my room, closed the door and collapsed on my bed, too drained even to take off the flip flops or get under the duvet.

When I woke up, it was light outside and my stupid ankle hurt worse than ever. I guess walking on it last night wasn't the best thing to do, even though I hadn't had any choice at the time. At least I hadn't done any sleepwalking.

I glanced at my watch. Ten past nine. Not quite breakfast time, and I didn't plan to go down for it anyway.

I sat up slowly, rubbing the back of my neck and hauled myself over to my bedroom window, which overlooks the main drive. I remembered Sherlock saying his friend John would turn up at around this time, and I was curious to see the kind of person he would have for a friend.

I was lucky; the two of them were walking up the drive as I peered out. I expected Sherlock's friend to be like Sherlock himself; tall, elegant and well dressed. Probably with a weight problem, although I don't know why I expected that, unless it was because I thought he'd be the kind of doctor who worked at a snooty private clinic and had expensive – and very long – lunches.

Instead, John was about a head shorter than Sherlock and dressed in a green parka and faded jeans. I could see him and Sherlock talking and opened the window to try and hear them, letting in a blast of icy air at the same time.

"—the family home," Sherlock was saying in a hard, bitter voice.

"_Home_?" John echoed. "No, Sherlock. This isn't a home. This is an estate!"

"Same thing." Pause. "What do you think?"

John folded his arms. "I think if you ever ask me to buy the milk again, I'm going to punch you in the face."

The room was freezing now. Reluctantly, I shut the window and rummaged around until I found the loosest pair of trousers I had, and managed to get them over my ankle. There. That was better. At least now my legs were a little warmer.

With the help of various pieces of furniture, I hopped and limped over to my bedroom door and opened it to find one small present and one envelope, which turned out to be from Mycroft and contained a hundred pounds. I don't think he'd given it any real thought – a hundred pounds is small change to someone like him – but I was still pleased to have some cash again. It was a lot better than the present, which was a fountain pen from Mrs Holmes. I mean, it was probably solid gold or something, but I don't use fountain pens. Nobody I _know_ uses fountain pens. Even beloved _Mycroft_ writes in biro; I know because I've seen him.

There was nothing from Sherlock, but I hadn't expected anything. There was also nothing from my foster family, which hurt a little. I hadn't thought they'd send me a present, but I thought I'd at least get a card from them. In terms of personal loot, this was shaping up to be the worst Christmas ever.

I shut the door and sat down on my bed, my ankle throbbing furiously, and stared at the wall. I couldn't even be bothered to get my laptop. I'd be called down for breakfast soon, although I thought I'd skip it today. I was sure that Christmas dinner would be huge; the Holmeses don't seem to do things by halves. I hadn't eaten much last night, just some veg and a couple of bread rolls, and if I didn't eat breakfast, maybe I'd be hungry enough to choke down some of Mrs Parker's cooking.

I pulled a book off the shelf without bothering to glance at the title and sat down on my bed to read it.

I was halfway through the third chapter when someone knocked on the door.

For a few seconds I just stared at it, baffled. Nobody in this house bothered to knock; Mrs Holmes just flung open any door and strode right in. Mycroft...actually, Mycroft might. I had no idea about Sherlock.

Abandoning my book – I'd read it before anyway – I limped over to the door, opened it and came face to face with the last person I'd expected to see, namely Sherlock's friend John.

I wish I could say that I was polite and courteous and everything a Holmes boy is supposed to be, but the truth is that I was so astonished to see him that I just stood there and gaped at him. I'd expected to be introduced to John sooner or later, but I never thought he'd come up to pay me a visit.

"Ben, isn't it?"

I nodded and thawed a little. At least he got my name right. If he'd called me _Benedict_ I think I'd have slammed the door in his face.

"My name's John Watson. I'm a doctor, and a friend of Sherlock's; he asked me to take a look at your ankle. You mind if I come in?"

I hesitated. Part of me liked the look of Sherlock's doctor friend – it was nice to meet a regular guy – but the other part wasn't so sure. From my own experiences when I got hurt playing football, when a doctor says he wants to _look at _something, it means he wants to poke it, and I didn't think my ankle could take that. I still remembered Sherlock's not so tender ministrations when I first woke up on that kitchen table.

"Are you going to touch it?"

"I'll have to examine it, but Sherlock says he did the rotation test, so we can skip that one if you'd rather."

I nodded hard. "Yeah, he did."

Some of my feelings must have been obvious in my voice and face, because John grinned.

"Yeah, I felt a little sorry for you when I got that phone call. I know what Sherlock's bedside manner is like. Last time I got a cold he made me wear a surgical mask and ordered me to go out of the room if I wanted to sneeze."

I stared at him, not sure if he was joking or not. I was starting to believe that anything was possible where the Holmeses were concerned.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Told him that I'd warn him in advance if it was going to happen, but if he was that determined not to get ill, he could go and live in a hotel until I was better."

"And did he?"

"Yes, he did, right up to the point when he accidentally blew up the sauna." John nodded towards my leg. "C'mon. Let's have a look at that ankle."

This took a lot of wriggling on my part, since my ankle was too painful to just lift it up onto the bed, and so I had to sit down, scoot up on my behind and drag my leg up after me. Even that much coupled with walking to the door and back tired me.

Once I was more or less in position, John took hold of my trouser leg and very gently rolled it back to expose my swollen ankle.

"Wow. That's a nasty one. Must be painful."

That was an understatement, I thought as John continued to examine my ankle.

"What've you taken for it?" he asked me.

I frowned. "Um, I haven't taken anything."

John glanced up at me, surprised. "What, no Nurofen or anything?"

I shook my head. "No. I don't know where they keep that stuff. Is my ankle okay for swimming?"

"Ah, no. Not just yet."

My heart sank. I love the pool, and since it's one of the few things worthy of a Holmes, I spend as much time as I can in there.

"How long until it is?"

"We'll see how it is once the swelling's gone down. For now I want you to rest it as much as possible."

Great. Not only was I stuck with this family, it looked like I was bedridden as well.

"Am I...okay? Otherwise?"

"How do you mean?"

I took a deep breath, then blurted, "Do I have frostbite?"

John blinked. "Shouldn't think so. Why?"

I swallowed but couldn't answer. When I was seven, my teacher brought in pictures of people suffering from frostbite, their fingers and toes black and rotting. It wasn't a good move on her part. I've never been able to get those images out of my head. I'd been terrified I was going to get it after my little walk the night before last.

"Ben, you're going to have to give me a little more to go on. Why do you think you might have frostbite?"

"I—" I began, then stopped. "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"I'll have to tell someone if you do have it, but I won't gossip about you, if that's what you mean. Go on."

I bit my lip. "I...last night, no, the night before, I...I went out for a walk." That was fine. I didn't have to tell him I'd been asleep at the time. "That was when Sherlock found me. After I'd been walking."

"Right..."

"And...and I was..." I swallowed again. "Well, I was, um, barefoot."

John stared at me in an incredulous silence for a few seconds, then shook his head. "Right. Sorry, Ben, for a minute I could've sworn you said you went out barefoot in eight inches of snow."

I looked down at my hands, then up at him, and then out of the window where more snow was falling. Wasn't it ever going to _stop_?

"I did," I said.

"Wasn't very clever, was it?"

I shook my head.

"So why'd you do it?"

I shrugged and didn't answer. The only answer he might accept as reasonable would be the truth, and I didn't talk about my sleepwalking.

"Ben?" John prompted.

I looked up at him, my eyes smarting. "Do I have frostbite?"

I think he realized I wasn't going to talk about this; something in his face softened a little. "Let's find out."

He moved to the other side of the bed and examined my right foot, squeezing the toes.

"Does this hurt?"

I shook my head.

"Did you notice anything like a kind of burning sensation, or tingling, or any pain at all? Any swelling? Itching?"

I shook my head again. "Not really. They throbbed a little, but not for very long."

"Right." John sat back on his heels. "Well, it looks like you've got away with it."

Relief – warm, glorious relief – shot through me and I slumped back onto the bed.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Just don't go walking barefoot in the snow anymore, okay?" John turned his attention to my ankle again. "Speaking of which, have you been walking on this since you hurt it?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I had to walk to the couch the night before last, and last night from the car to the dining room—"

"—and then up two flights of stairs," John finished. "Yeah, I see. God forbid anyone in this family do anything as pedestrian as _carry _you. Well, I want you to stay off your ankle as much as you can today. If you want to go downstairs, I'll give you a hand."

I glanced at my bedroom door longingly. I like my bedroom, but it was beginning to feel like a prison. Nobody comes up here except to clean; if Mrs Holmes wants me, she just calls my name. I don't know what Mycroft would do if he wanted me for something; it's never happened.

"Is Mrs Holmes down there?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Is Mycroft with her?"

"Oh yes. You don't think she'd let her darling boy out of her sight if she didn't have to, do you? Not on Christmas Day."

I thought about what it would be like with Mycroft, Mrs Holmes and Sherlock in the same room; a woman who doted on her oldest son, and two grown men who – if what I'd seen so far was any indication – hated each other, and made my decision.

"I'll stay up here then." The meal last night had been fun, but I didn't feel up to dealing with more of Sherlock and Mycroft's mutual hatred, or their nonverbal discussions about me. I just wanted some peace.

"Problems?" John's voice was quiet.

I shrugged, not looking at him. Yeah, I was having problems, if by that he meant being stuck with a family and life I realized I was beginning to hate, sleepwalking into the middle of a maze, almost dying of hypothermia and having an ankle the size of a football.

"You want to talk about it?"

I shook my head. John was nice, but I didn't want to discuss this with him. I might never sleepwalk again, and so nobody needed to know I'd done it last night. Even Sherlock probably didn't know.

"Alright. Well, if you ever change your mind, I'll listen."

I bit my lip. "Can you pass me my laptop please?"

"Sure." He lifted it off my desk and handed it to me. "Are you okay up here on your own?"

No, I wasn't. I kept thinking about the last Christmas I'd had. That had been with my foster family. There were five of us in that home and the whole atmosphere had been one of happy chaos. I wasn't exactly settled and happy there at the time – I'd only moved in a month or so before and still been in some kind of shock over my mum's death at the time – but I couldn't help enjoying it. This sterile way of celebrating didn't seem right to me. In fact, I couldn't remember ever having a Christmas that I didn't enjoy.

"Ben?" John pressed.

"What do _you_ care?" I demanded.

"I care because I'm nosy."

I glanced at him, caught sight of his grin and grinned back before I could stop myself.

"And I care because it's not nice to be alone on Christmas Day," John added more seriously.

"You've got Sherlock," I pointed out.

"No I haven't. No, he's busy doing his best to drive Mycroft into a padded cell. I don't think he's going to manage it but he seems to have fun trying. And besides, I was talking about you."

I shrugged. "It's okay. I didn't think I'd like being alone when I first moved in, but I'm getting used to it. Anyway, there are so many stupid rules to remember whenever I'm with Mrs Holmes that it's easier to be alone. Being alone protects me from going nuts."

I don't know why, but something in that seemed to alarm him; he glanced at me sharply, a look of sudden, deep concern on his face.

"What about Christmas dinner? You're coming down for that, aren't you?"

I thought about the kind of Christmas dinner Mrs Parker had most likely cooked and felt my stomach yowl in protest.

"Not really hungry." That was a lie; I _was_ hungry, but not yet hungry enough to eat Mrs Parker's cooking.

"Really? What did you have for breakfast?"

"I wasn't hungry then either."

John gave me a long look. "So you haven't eaten since last night and you had nothing before that until lunchtime the day before?"

I had to stop and work this one out, then I nodded. "Yeah."

"Right. I see. In other words, you've had nothing in the last forty eight hours apart from – according to Sherlock – two bread rolls and a few carrots?"

"I was asleep most of yesterday!" I protested. "Anyway, the cook isn't very good and I'm not allowed in the kitchen to make my own food."

"Yeah, Sherlock mentioned that to me as well. He also texted me a shopping list along with a map to the nearest supermarket."

"You're going shopping?" I brightened up. "Can I come?"

"I'm only going to Asda, Ben. It's nothing exciting."

"That doesn't matter. Go on, please?" I hoped he'd say _yes_. I hadn't been off the grounds since I arrived here, except for a trip to register me with the GP. To be honest, I don't know where I'd go; the nearest town is seven miles away. I don't have any pocket money, so I couldn't buy anything even if I could go into town, but I was sick and tired of seeing the same place, no matter how big and impressive it is.

"Your ankle—"

"I'll sit in the car. I don't mind. I've been stuck here for six months, I've only been off the grounds once. I'm going crazy!"

"What about school? You must go to school."

I shook my head, not looking at him.

"No. They're gonna send me to some boarding school but apparently I've gotta wait for the new intake or something and that's not until April."

"_April_?" John echoed. "Don't you have, I don't know, a tutor or something?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, but I didn't like him, so he left."

"Oh really? What happened?"

I squirmed a little. It wasn't something I liked to think about. "I just hated him. He was always saying how stupid I was and so I'd have to study more and more until I was having four hours' solid work six days a week with half an hour for lunch and then _another_ four hours' work and then three hours' homework and one day I...well, I kinda flipped."

John raised his eyebrows. "What happened?" he asked again.

I shifted my weight. I liked this friend of Sherlock's – or thought I did; it was a little too soon to tell for sure – but that didn't mean I was comfortable opening up to him.

"_Please_ can I come with you?" I begged.

Again, he seemed to know not to press me and instead said, "Ask your mum."

What little was left of my good mood evaporated and I scowled at him. "She's _not_ my mum!"

"Right. Sorry. What do you call her, then?"

"Mrs Holmes."

John frowned. "What, you don't use her name?"

"I don't know her name. She's not the kind of person you can ask about stuff like that. Can I come shopping with you?"

"If Mrs Holmes says it's okay and if your ankle's better, and if you _really_ want to tag along while I go around Asda, then yes. Though I think you're mad; when I was your age, I used to fight tooth and nail to avoid being dragged to the supermarket."

I couldn't help a small smile at that.

"But on one condition," John added.

I felt my heart drop through the floor. "What's that?"

"You come downstairs for Christmas dinner."

I groaned and flopped back onto my bed, my hands over my face.

"Was that a yes or a no?" John asked.

I took my hands away enough to fix him with my best pathetic look. "Do I _have_ to?"

"If you want me to take you shopping, yes."

"But you said I had to rest my ankle," I tried.

"I also said I'd help you downstairs."

"Will you help me upstairs again afterwards? I mean right afterwards?"

"Once everyone's finished eating, then yes, if that's what you want."

I gave my laptop a longing look, then turned the same look on John.

"I could eat mine up here?" I said hopefully.

He shook his head, arms folded. "No."

Oh well. It had been worth a try.

"I don't really want to eat anything." That wasn't quite a lie. I was hovering somewhere between hunger and nausea and wasn't sure if I'd be able to keep anything down.

"No, but you can't go all day without something. Come on. They're planning to eat at half past one, so you won't have to suffer for too long. And there's some nibbles downstairs, or there are if Sherlock's left any."

I perked up a little. I didn't really want a big Christmas dinner, but a plate of nibbles sounded good.

"Are there any mince pies?"

"Should be. There were about two dozen left when I came up. Along with two six-packs of Dr Pepper, three packs of onion bhajis, at least twenty miniature samosas, six dozen Crunchie bars, five giant Aeros – two regular, two mint and one orange – and eight tubes of Pringles. Oh, and a pineapple."

I stared at him, not quite sure whether to believe him or not. I could sort of see the thinking behind the Pringles, but the rest baffled me. Indian food is, apparently, not something a Holmes indulges in (unless, of course, they're actually on holiday _in_ India) and although chocolates exist, they're usually of the rich Belgian kind.

"Onion bhajis?" I echoed, unable to think of anything else to say. "_Crunchie bars_?"

John shrugged. "Yeah, well, Mrs Holmes made the mistake of ordering Sherlock to provide the Christmas nibbles. Said it could be his contribution. So, are you coming down?"

I hesitated.

"I think...my ankle's too painful," I said.

"It wasn't too painful when you were talking about going to the swimming pool," John answered. "Come on, I'll give you a hand. We can take it slowly."

Reluctantly, I let him help me to my feet and over to the door. It was only one meal. I didn't think it could last longer than a couple of hours. How bad could it be?

* * *

><p><strong>Well, people seemed to want John there for Christmas (at least, one person did and nobody voted to keep him away) so I brought him into the story a little early ;) Hope you liked it and if you read, please review!<strong>


	4. Christmas Day

**hjkl: **Thanks XD Mycroft...well, let's just say that things are probably going to get a little easier. Probably ;)

* * *

><p>Going downstairs was a lot easier than going up had been, mostly thanks to John supporting my weight and, when we went around corners, almost carrying me.<p>

We were at the top of the last flight of stairs when Mrs Holmes' voice drifted up the stairs.

"_Benedict_!"

Actually, that's not really how she calls my name. Instead she stretches it out in a high-pitched soprano trill; it's more like "_Be-e-e-e-ne-di-i-i-i-ict_." and never lasts less than five seconds.

John glanced at me, puzzled. "Benedict?"

"It's Ben."

"Oh right. What, is that short for—"

"_No_!" I tried to push him away from me and very nearly ended up pushing myself down the stairs instead. There was a confused few minutes, then John managed to grab my wrist and haul me back to safety.

"Next time, push me the other way, okay?" He waited until my heart had stopped trying to crash through my chest, then said, "What was that all about?"

"When I was born, my mum and dad called me _Ben_. Not Benedict, not even Benjamin; just _Ben_. It's on my birth certificate and everything, only when I came here Mrs Holmes changed my name to Benedict by deed poll! But it's _not_ my name!"

John held both hands up. "Alright, easy! I was just asking."

I looked away, biting my lip. "I'm sorry, it's just...my ankle hurts."

I think he knew that was a pathetic excuse as much as I did, but he didn't comment on it. Instead he just said, "I know. C'mon, let's get you downstairs and onto the sofa. Get you something to eat as well."

"_Be-e-e-e-ne-di-i-i-i-ict!_"

Before this summons was finished, I heard Sherlock's voice overriding it.

"For god's sake, will the two of you get down here before she bursts my eardrums!"

John glanced at me.

"Ready for the final sprint?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

"If I have to be," I muttered.

"You do if you want to come on that trip with me."

I tried to glare at him, but I don't think I did a very good job, because he looked away with that expression people only get when they're trying not to laugh.

"That's extortion," I told him.

"Absolutely," John agreed cheerfully. "Come on, it won't be that bad. By three o'clock, half past at the latest, you'll be back up in your room if you still want to be."

I let him help me down the last stairs, grumbling just loud enough for him to know I wasn't happy but too quietly for him to pick out any of the words I was using.

To my surprise, instead of taking me into one of the lounges (we have three, although admittedly that includes the drawing room) John led me into the dining room, where Mrs Holmes and Mycroft were sitting. I guess even Christmas nibbles have to be a formal occasion in this house.

Sherlock was there too, but it took me a few minutes to spot him as he was lying on his back across four chairs with a plate of nibbles resting on his chest and his feet lifted several inches in the air.

I stared at him, trying to work out why he didn't just sit like normal people. Eventually I said, "Uh—"

"Mother's orders," Sherlock drawled. "Apparently she doesn't want my dirty feet all over her nice clean chairs. Mycroft doesn't want me arguing with Mother on Christmas Day and _John_ doesn't want me arguing with Mycroft. This seemed an acceptable compromise." He gave a kind of languid wave towards the table. "Help yourself, by the way."

I didn't need to be told twice. Hunger was overtaking nausea and the food there was calling to me. Besides, if I stuffed myself here, maybe I could avoid having to eat too much of Mrs Parker's cooking.

John hadn't been exaggerating about the nibbles; in fact, he'd forgotten to mention the cheese and watermelon hedgehog, the sausage rolls and a bowl of small, steaming golden brown objects in the middle. Curious, I picked one up and tried it, chewing as I tried to place the flavor; soft, creamy, light, and like nothing I'd ever tasted before.

"What's this?"

"Battered cauliflower," Sherlock answered.

I glanced at him, surprised. Usually I hate cauliflower, but like this it wasn't too bad.

"Wow."

"Yes. I don't think it's appropriate for this occasion, Sherlock," Mrs Holmes said from her position at the head of the table. There was an untouched samosa on her plate and a half eaten mince pie and even though I didn't know him all that well, I was sure Sherlock had taken a secret delight in choosing the most inappropriate foods he could. I might have felt sorry for Mrs Holmes if I didn't know she had a kitchen of people who would cook her anything she wanted.

"Then buy the nibbles yourself next year," Sherlock retorted. "John, cauliflower?"

John took a piece, turning it over and over in his fingers as I piled as many nibbles onto my plate as I could fit on there and settled down to eat.

"Did you cook this?" I asked Sherlock, more to break the silence than anything. I doubted he did; whoever heard of a Holmes _cooking_?

John froze, his own cauliflower halfway to his mouth, then he lowered it to the plate again.

"Sherlock?" he said suspiciously.

Sherlock twisted around and sat up, glaring at John. "Oh, for heaven's sake! _Yes_. I did cook it. Now shut up and eat."

I glanced at John, not sure what I'd said, but he was too busy staring at Sherlock through narrowed eyes.

"And it _is_ cauliflower this time? You're sure?"

"Well, what else could it be? I prepared it in the kitchen here. What more do you want?"

I pricked up my ears. I've been trying and trying to get into the kitchen, but Mrs Parker won't let me anywhere near it. Maybe I could try Sherlock's tactic.

"How'd you get past the cook?" I asked.

"Simple; I just pointed out to her the advantages of letting me cook."

Mycroft arched his eyebrows. "As I recall, Sherlock, your exact words were _if you don't piss off and let me get on with it, I'll blow up the kitchen_."

"Exactly. There's enough of the staff here who remember me well enough to know I can do it. Samosa, Ben?"

Oh well, so much for that idea. I took the samosa from the offered plate and bit into it.

"You might have chosen a more traditional type of food," Mycroft remarked. I don't think he'd eaten anything; his plate was completely bare. "Indian cuisine is hardly the sort of thing one expects to find on Christmas Day."

"I didn't hear you complaining about Indian cuisine when we were in Kerala," Sherlock answered.

"You were _four_ when we went to Kerala," Mycroft pointed out.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Sherlock lifted a bhaji using the very tips of his fingers and bit it delicately in half, while I tried and failed to imagine him as a four year old. "If you don't like my choice of nibbles, you can buy them yourself next year."

"I did offer to, but unfortunately Mother wouldn't hear of it."

We ate in silence for a few minutes (at least, John, Sherlock and I did; Mrs Holmes was busy asking Mycroft questions and bragging about his short answers) then Sherlock spoke up again.

"So anyway, Mycroft. What's going on in your sordid little world?"

"Oh, don't pretend you care."

"On the contrary, brother dear, I care very much. You seem intent on dragging me into that world at every opportunity, so I think it's only fair you tell me what to expect. Been chatting with any more of my worst enemies lately?"

Before Mycroft had a chance to answer, John kicked me hard – fortunately not on my bad ankle – and I jerked upright, staring at him.

"What did _I_ do?"

John dropped his bhaji and looked stricken. "Was that you? Oh god, Ben, I'm sorry. I was aiming for Sherlock."

"You missed," Sherlock stated, a smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. I guess if it had happened to someone else, I'd have found it funny too.

"Did I get your ankle?"

I wondered if I could say _yes_ and get out of this early, but it probably wouldn't work. John would insist on examining it and, being a doctor, would know in an instant that I was lying.

"Yeah, but not the bad one," I said without thinking.

Mrs Holmes stopped bragging about Mycroft and turned to stare at me. "Which bad one?"

"Benedict injured his ankle a couple of nights ago," Mycroft remarked.

"Yeah but John saw it and he says it's fine and nothing to worry about and he's a doctor so he should know!" I said in one breath, all the time staring at John and silently begging him not to contradict me.

"I saw it as well," Mycroft reminded me. "It's far from fine."

"Ah, but you're not a doctor," Sherlock pointed out, "so how would you know?"

"I'm not an idiot either, Sherlock. Benedict goes out and, to use your own words, _gets acquainted _with you, and then he's back with a bad ankle."

Sherlock's tone was suddenly so cold – so _dangerous_ – that it froze me in place, my samosa halfway to my mouth.

"Mycroft, if you are insinuating for one minute that _I_ had something to do with the boy's injury—"

"I'm not insinuating anything of the kind, Sherlock," Mycroft cut across smoothly. He paused just long enough for everyone to see it coming, then added, "But since we're on the subject—"

Sherlock was on his feet so fast I barely saw him move, Mycroft only a split second behind him. For one crazy moment I thought they were going to have a free fight, although it was hard to imagine Mycroft doing anything like that. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to fit very nicely with the idea of violence; I don't know why, but it wasn't hard to imagine him punching someone.

"Boys?" John's voice was firm but resigned, as though he was used to breaking up fights between Sherlock and Mycroft. "Not now. Not here. Not on Christmas Day."

"He started it," Sherlock said, glaring at his brother.

John sighed. "Yeah, but be fair, Sherlock, that's not usually how it goes, is it? Come on, behave!"

"Yes." Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on Mycroft as the two of them lowered themselves into their seats and I started to breathe again. "Alright. We'll save it for New Year's. He'll be too drunk then to remember anything anyway."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a smile that I think was about as genuine as Sherlock's affection for him, then said, "I never get drunk, Sherlock. You know that."

I don't know about Sherlock, but I believed him. Getting drunk on New Year's Eve usually goes together with fun and parties. Mycroft...well, he must have _some_ hobbies, although I couldn't imagine what they might be, but I also couldn't imagine him attending any kind of party unless it was of the black tie variety, and even then it would probably be under protest.

"Sherlock, will you behave!" Mrs Holmes demanded. I don't think I've ever heard her so close to losing her temper. "I only allowed you to come so that you could make up with your older brother."

"_Allowed_ me to come? Listening to you, Mother, anyone would think I wanted to be here. Ben's here because he doesn't have a choice, and Mycroft's here because he's busy sucking up to you trying to get into your will—"

"For heaven's sake!" Mycroft snapped, just as I said, "If that's true, then why does he only come to visit her once a week? Why doesn't he ever call her?"

All eyes turned to me and I wanted to drop through the floor. I really wasn't trying to defend Mycroft; the words had just tumbled out before I could stop them.

There was a short pause, then Mycroft looked at Sherlock in a way which said, _Go on then, explain that one_. I was getting very good at reading the Holmes boys' silent language.

"He doesn't need to," Sherlock answered. "Compared to the contact _I've_ had with Mother over the years, a weekly visit from Mycroft is the very pinnacle of devotion. How much of those visits does he spend on his phone when Mother's not looking, Ben?"

I must have gone red or something because Sherlock smirked.

"Thought so. He's just keeping up appearances. Wants into the will, like I said. Wants to get his hands on this estate."

To my astonishment, Mycroft laughed. I mean, he actually _laughed_. I didn't realize he even knew _how_ to laugh.

"Oh Sherlock." He shook his head, still clearly amused.

"What?"

"You and I both know it's nowhere _near_ that simple. Especially not now."

Again, I got the same uneasy feeling I'd had last night; that the two of them were talking about me, although I still didn't understand what they were saying. They couldn't believe I was any kind of threat to their inheritance; I might have jumped ahead of Sherlock in the queue, but there was no _way_ I would replace Mycroft as Favorite Son.

Sherlock stared at his brother for a few minutes, then shot out several words in a foreign language with the same ease and fluency as he spoke English. I didn't have a clue what he said, but I got the questioning tone well enough.

Mycroft replied in the same language. I had an odd feeling that it was somehow familiar, but I couldn't think where I'd heard it before.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and retorted something, jerking his head towards me, and I glanced at him nervously. I hate the way they sometimes discuss me like I'm not there, but up until now, at least I've always been able to understand what they're saying about me.

Whatever Mycroft said in response, it earned him a look from Sherlock that I could read only too easily as _Yeah, right_!

The discussion went on for a few minutes, with Sherlock's side becoming a little more heated. I heard my name mentioned once or twice and my nervousness grew.

Actually, that's not quite true. I'd been nervous right from Sherlock and Mycroft's first silent conversation about me last night. I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling I'd had ever since then, that I was a very small fly in the middle of a very large and devious web.

Yeah, poetic, I know, but it's how I felt. I turned a pleading look on John, silently begging him to get me out of this.

"Without sparking off another fight, how's your ankle, Ben?" John asked.

"Hurts," I said, with perfect truth.

"Do you feel up to showing me the pool? I think there's time before lunch."

I scrambled to my feet, hanging onto the table for support. I'd show him the family safe if it got me out of this situation. I'm not into confrontations, especially not on this level.

Sherlock glanced at us, frowning. "I showed you the pool when we came in."

"Yeah. Well, I'd like to see it again. Besides, if you're going to have entire conversations about Ben in Latin, you might have the decency to wait until he's not around." He fired off a _don't argue_ look and Sherlock shrugged and went back to his conversation with Mycroft – which had now proceeded into the same silent, almost imperceptible signs and facial expressions I'd seen them use before – as John helped me over to the door.

I was so keen to get away that I moved faster than I should have. It was alright until we were about halfway down the hall that led to the pool, and then my vision suddenly clouded with stars. I stopped, swaying slightly, fighting to clear my head.

"Ben?" John's voice echoed in my ears. "Are you okay?"

Might have known I couldn't fool a doctor. I'd answer him in a minute, just as soon as my head was clearer.

"Ben?"

"I...dizzy."

I have to admit, he was fast. Before I'd even finished saying the word _dizzy_, I was on a chair and John's hand was on the back of my neck, pushing my head between my knees.

I don't know how long I sat there like that. It felt strange to have someone touch me; the Holmeses really aren't big on that sort of thing. I've seen Mycroft kiss his mother on the cheek, but I don't think there's any real affection there; he just does it because he feels he ought to.

"Okay." My voice was a little slurred. "Okay now."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Alright." John took his hand away. "But sit up slowly. Don't want you passing out on me."

I obeyed. I was suddenly seized with a crazy impulse to grab his hand and cling to it like a much younger kid, if only to prove to myself that it was real.

I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, fighting to dislodge that thought. Of course it was real! What was I _thinking_?

"Ben?"

"I'm fine!" It was more a bark than an answer and I winced. "I'm sorry. I just...sorry."

"Alright. Just relax."

Relax? The thought of relaxing in this house was so mad that I burst into a fit of giggles, which lasted a little too long. When I looked at John (or to be more precise, when I managed to look at him without remembering what he'd just said and giggling some more) I saw the same look of dark concern in his eyes that I'd noticed before.

"It's okay. I'm okay. Everything's...everything's okay."

The expression on John's face said that he seriously doubted that, but he didn't say anything besides, "Alright. You feel up to going back to the dining room?"

That snapped me back to my senses in a hurry.

"Can't I eat mine upstairs?" I pleaded.

"No, sorry. But I do promise not to kick you this time, no matter how much Sherlock annoys me. C'mon. The more you eat, the quicker you'll heal."

I gave him a long look. I may be a kid, but I'm not stupid.

"Are you saying that because it's true, or because you're trying to get me to do the social thing on Christmas Day?"

"Both," John admitted. "And because it would be nice to have someone at the dinner table who I can have a sane conversation with."

He was right there. I hadn't had a sane conversation, as he put it, for a long time, at least not one that didn't involve an argument or degenerate into criticism on some aspect of my behavior.

"Can I have some painkillers first?" I tried.

"Yeah, with your ankle I think you'd better. I've got some in my parka; wait there. And no sneaking off up to your room!" John added.

Drat. Oh well, given how bad my ankle was, I doubted I could have made it very far without help anyway.

I sat there for a good few minutes, waiting for him to get back, when Sherlock strode down the hall, saw me and came to an abrupt stop.

"Where's John?" he asked.

"Went to get some painkillers."

"Oh yes, of course."

"Sherlock?" I said before he could walk away again. "Can you, um, do me a favor?"

He glanced at me curiously. "I expect so. What sort of a favor?"

I swallowed, unsure if I wanted to ask him now. But still...the worst he could do was say _no_, right?

"It's just, you know there were a few nibbles left over?"

"More than a few, but go on."

I wondered a little at that, how Sherlock could be so unconcerned about spending, well, however much he'd spent, on nibbles that nobody had eaten. Then I realized that Sherlock's purpose probably hadn't been to bring food that everyone would enjoy so much as to drive his brother and mother crazy.

"Can I have them? To eat, I mean?"

"Well, I didn't think you wanted them for tennis practice. And yes, you can. I assume you want the Dr Pepper as well."

I nodded hard.

"Alright. I'll see what I can do. Maybe hide it under your pillow or something."

That would work. My bed is _huge_, with a soft headboard and about seven pillows and cushions. It's a little too big, to be honest, but it's handy for squirreling things away.

"Thanks," I said, but Sherlock was already halfway down the hall, working on his phone. I wondered if he ever stopped texting people.

A few minutes later, John was back with the painkillers and a glass of water. As soon as he was within arm's reach, I grabbed the pills out of his hand and swallowed them, then snatched the water and chugged it down so fast I spilled half of it.

"How long do they take to work?" I demanded.

"About half an hour. So should be just in time for you to go back upstairs if you want. C'mon, before they send out a search party for us."

It was a slow walk back to the dining room; so slow, in fact, that Sherlock got there before us. I think I could have gone a little faster, but John didn't want to overstrain my ankle, and to be honest I wasn't in any hurry to get back there anyway.

In the short time since John and I had left, the table had been cleared of nibbles and relaid for Christmas dinner. Mrs Holmes ignored our entrance, but Mycroft gave us a brief glance.

"Change your mind about the pool?" (How did he know that? _How_?)

"I had to get Ben some Nurofen," John said in a cold voice that was very different from the one he'd taken to me. "In case you haven't noticed, Mycroft, his ankle is extremely painful. I'm not even sure he should be down here."

I opened my mouth to protest that I wouldn't have _been_ down there if John hadn't _dragged_ me down there, caught his warning look, shut it again and meekly let him help me to a chair as Mycroft said, "It's Christmas Day, John, a time for family. How _is_ your sister, by the way?"

John curled his hand into a fist, then uncurled it with what looked like real effort.

"_Fine_."

"Well, that's good, isn't it? I heard the Priory does splendid Christmas lunches. So nice that Sherlock was able to finance Harriet's stay. I'm sure she's very happy there."

"Don't push your luck, Mycroft," John warned.

I badly wanted to ask where or what the Priory was, but it looked like such a touchy subject for John that I didn't quite dare, and so I sat in silence until the food was brought in.

The Christmas dinner was huge, although there were no crackers, and mostly inedible. The turkey was dry, the stuffing was drier and the sausages and bacon were both crunchy. Sherlock, I noticed, didn't bother trying to eat any of it but instead dived into the bread basket and dumped four rolls onto his plate and one on mine. John managed to force down some of the potatoes and turkey and – with the help of a lot of gravy – so did I.

"I think Mrs Parker's cooking is coming along nicely," Mrs Holmes said, although she didn't sound convinced.

"_I_ think you've got early onset dementia," Sherlock retorted. "She's useless! Even a homeless person wouldn't touch this stuff."

"You would know," Mycroft remarked, just loud enough for us to hear.

I was puzzling over this when John said, "The vegetables aren't too bad."

"The vegetables?" Sherlock echoed, poking some of the vegetables in question with a fork gingerly, as though they might jump off the plate. "She burned the carrots. How do you _burn carrots_, for god's sake? If you overcook them they usually just turn to mush. I'm telling you, Mother, the woman's a culinary train wreck. You'll wake up one morning and find she's blown up the kitchen or something."

"Well, she wouldn't be the first to do so, Sherlock," Mycroft murmured.

I could see Sherlock was still simmering over this remark when the dessert came in. Instead of the traditional Christmas pudding, there was a lime cheesecake, leftover mince pies and something which was black on the top but which – according to Mrs Parker – was a rhubarb crumble.

I'd just started to dive for the mince pies when Mrs Holmes cleared her throat.

"Before we move on to dessert, I would like to say a few words about this time of year. Christmas is a time where one should spend a moment or two thinking about others, being grateful for that which one has received, and a time for showing that little bit extra respect and consideration towards the members of one's family—"

"Oh, shut up and pass me the cheesecake," Sherlock interrupted. "I don't suppose your new cook could have messed _that_ up too badly."

He was right about that, I thought. Mrs Parker hadn't messed the cheesecake up, because she hadn't made it; it was a Waitrose product. I'd seen her taking it out of the bag a few days ago. I wasn't going to tell anyone, though. I was saving that particular revelation for the next time I wanted a between-meal snack and she threatened to tell Mrs Holmes.

"For your information, Sherlock," Mrs Holmes said frostily, while I took advantage of the distraction to make a grab for the mince pies, "Mrs Parker came _highly_ recommended by a number of people—"

"Friends and family don't count as references," Sherlock retorted, in between demolishing large bites of cheesecake.

"—and Mrs Wilson may have been more experienced, but her attitude left a lot to be desired. I needed to hire someone who would treat your elder brother and myself with all the respect and courteous language that we are entitled to."

Sherlock pasted an innocent look on his face. "But unfortunately Gordon Ramsay was busy, and so you had to make do with Mrs Parker. Shame. Mycroft, pass me some more of that cheesecake; it's actually rather good."

"You've already had a piece, Sherlock."

"Yes, well, if they were a decent size, I wouldn't have to keep going back for more." Sherlock raised cold eyebrows. "I don't recommend _you_ do, though. Don't want to ruin that diet."

Mycroft flung his napkin on the table, pushed his chair back and strode out of the room.

"Sherlock _Holmes_!" I had never seen Mrs Holmes look so outraged. "You will go after your poor brother right this very second and apologize to him!"

"I will not. Ben, pass me the—"

I handed him the cheesecake platter.

"Thank you." Sherlock took two pieces. "I'm sure Mycroft will recover from his tantrum soon enough, Mother."

"That was a little below the belt, Sherlock," John said.

"Oh, he'll recover. My brother's got no feelings; he's said so himself on numerous occasions. Ben, you've hardly touched your food, can I pass you anything?"

"No thanks." I didn't want anything just then except to go to bed and sleep. I still wasn't sure what to make of Sherlock, whether he was genuinely concerned about me, was just being polite or – having lost Mycroft as a target – was now zeroing in on me.

"His name is _Benedict_, Sherlock," Mrs Holmes said.

"Ben," I muttered, although I didn't have the energy to argue just then. Sherlock glanced at Mrs Holmes.

"He ought to know."

I glanced at John, too tired to worry about being polite. The Nurofen didn't seem to be working; my ankle was just as painful as ever.

"Can't I go back upstairs now? You promised I could."

For a horrible moment I thought he was going to refuse, or at least insist that I wait for everyone else to finish eating, then he nodded.

"Yeah, okay. Come on, I'll take you."

"Benedict isn't going anywhere," Mrs Holmes said, before I was more than halfway to my feet. "The meal isn't over yet."

"It is for him," John informed her. "He needs rest."

"Well, he can rest at the table." She gave us that smile I absolutely hate, the one which says, _There, you see, I'm right after all, aren't I_?

"What, with your two other sons trying to kill each other? Hardly a peaceful atmosphere, is it?"

The smile froze. "Dr. Watson, I know you mean well, but as the boy's mother, I—"

"_You're not my bloody mother_!" I don't know why I picked that moment to yell that. Blame the pain in my ankle, I guess, or the added tension in the atmosphere that happened whenever Sherlock and Mycroft were within about fifty feet of each other.

I also have no idea why I did what I did next, which was to turn around and bury my face in John's chest and cling to the front of his jumper. Maybe that was down to the pain as well. I mean, I'd only known the guy for a few hours.

The silence stretched out for all of five seconds before Sherlock said, "And on that note, I'm going outside to get some fresh air and to check on the maze. Merry Christmas, everyone."

_Check on the what?_ a little part of me wondered. The rest of me was busy scrambling around trying to find enough pieces of my mind to put back together.

"Ben?" John's voice was very quiet. At some point he'd put his arm around me, although I didn't know if he was trying to comfort me or just making sure I didn't collapse. "Come on. Let's get you upstairs, eh?"

Not looking at anyone, I let him help me out the door and upstairs to my bedroom. I barely noticed the stairs or distance this time; I was too busy trying to make some sense out of what was going on in my mind.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled as soon as we were inside and he'd shut the door. I didn't quite know why I was apologizing to him, unless it was for turning him into a security blanket in front of everyone, or maybe my earlier fit of the giggles, but I felt it needed to be said.

"It's okay, mate." John supported me over to the bed and sat me down on it. "It's alright. Go on, you get some rest. I'll be back to check on you later."

I lay down and shut my eyes. I was asleep so fast that I didn't even hear him leave.

When I woke up, it was five to six in the evening and my stomach was growling loudly. I wondered if Sherlock had found time to smuggle the nibbles up to my room yet.

A little careful rummaging among my pillows revealed that yes, he had brought the food up and also that he'd been very generous with it; there were four carrier bags' worth of nibbles (including half the Crunchie bars and three of the giant Aeros) and one six-pack of Dr Pepper. I wasn't quite sure how Sherlock had managed to sneak in, hide all these rustly bags under my pillows and sneak out again without waking me, but I was glad he had.

I pulled out a sausage roll, opened a can of Dr Pepper and proceeded to stuff myself, then settled back on the bed with my laptop and headphones.

I was so engrossed in my iTunes that I didn't hear the knock on my door. I wasn't even aware I had a visitor until the door opened and John came in.

"Ben?"

I jumped, pulled off my headphones and stuffed them under the blanket. "Sorry, I didn't know you were there."

"No. I knocked, but obviously you didn't hear me." John came over to the foot of my bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," I told him.

"Right. And is that okay as in _okay_, or is it okay as in _shut up and stop bothering me_?"

I managed a grin and said, "The first one." It was true too; for some reason I was feeling better than I had in weeks.

"Good. Are you coming down for supper?"

I fixed him with my most appealing look. "Do I _have_ to? I'm not hungry."

John glanced down at my bed, which was now full of crumbs, two Crunchie wrappers and the remains of a giant Aero (I'd eaten about half of it before finally admitting defeat) and raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not surprised," he said. "Did Sherlock smuggle this up for you?"

"Yeah." I'd wondered a little about that; Sherlock didn't seem the most accommodating of people in the normal run of things. Maybe he'd just done it because he thought it would annoy his mother. "You did say you wanted me to eat something."

"Half a giant peppermint Aero, two Crunchie bars and who knows what else wasn't _quite_ the something I had in mind, Ben." Despite the sternness of his tone, I noticed an amused gleam in his eyes. I wondered if John had ever smuggled sweets up to his room as a child.

"I had three samosas, two sausage rolls and four bhajis too," I said as innocently as I could.

"Oh, did you?" He was half smiling now.

"Yeah. And some Dr Pepper."

"Mm. Very healthy."

"It's Christmas," I pointed out. "You gotta stuff yourself until you feel sick; it's traditional."

To my surprise, he laughed. "Well, I can't argue with you there. Alright then. I'll tell them you won't be coming down." He paused, then said, "And I'm sorry about earlier."

"_You're_ sorry?" I stared at him. What did he have to be sorry about? _He_ hadn't suffered a fit of the giggles or grabbed hold of a near-stranger for comfort.

"I should have taken you straight back upstairs when you nearly collapsed. I'm...well, I was an idiot, as Sherlock was kind enough to point out to me as soon as he got back in. I just didn't like to think of you all alone up here."

I blinked. "But I'm usually alone up here."

"Yeah, so you said. That's what worries me."

I shrugged and looked away. It didn't worry _me_. Being alone gave me a little breathing space from this family.

"Alright." John stepped back into the doorway. "Well, I'll be downstairs if you need anything. Try and get some sleep. And a happy Christmas," he added, then I heard him say under his breath, "what's left of it, anyway."

I wasn't sure if he meant that as a criticism or not, and didn't like to ask. Instead I just said, "Thanks. You too."

For a moment I thought he was going to say something else, then he just nodded, smiled and walked out, closing the door behind him.

About two minutes later it opened again and Sherlock strolled in.

"I see you found the food," he said by way of greeting, nodding towards my supper.

I swallowed my sausage roll, almost choked on it and eventually managed to gasp out, "Yeah. Thanks."

Sherlock waved this away and strode over to the foot of my bed. "I'll make this quick, Ben, since you'd much rather I wasn't here."

I blinked. It was true I just wanted to curl up with my laptop and listen to music, but I wouldn't have put it quite as bluntly as that.

"Um—" I began.

"Oh no, please don't pretend to be polite. I get enough of that whenever John brings his latest girlfriend home." Sherlock dropped onto all fours and scrambled forward. "Somewhere around here, assuming it hasn't been—ah!"

I was just wondering whether every member of this family was nuts when Sherlock prised up a small section of the floor, about a foot in length, to reveal a small space underneath.

"You may find this useful," Sherlock told me while I stared at it. "As far as I know, nobody besides me is aware of it. I came across it when I was five years old and destroying my room. Used it to hide all my personal items."

"Why were you destroying your—" I began before another question overtook that one and my jaw hit the ground. "This was _your_ room?"

"Yeah. Hasn't changed much. Funny, that; when I lived here, Mother was always having it redecorated and refurnished when I was out and about. Used to drive me mad."

"And you don't mind me being here?"

I know it was a strange question to ask, but I couldn't help it. Even after six months, I still felt like an outsider in this family, and finding out I was living in a bedroom that had originally belonged to one of them made me a little nervous. I don't know why.

Sherlock, for his part, looked surprised. "What? No, of course not, why would I mind? It's not like I need it anymore."

I swallowed, then asked the question I was dreading the answer to.

"Is Mrs Holmes angry with me?"

"In a word, yes. Don't worry; I'll blow up her favorite cushion or something. That'll take her mind off it."

"I can't let you do that for me!"

"You're not exactly in any position to stop me. Anyway, I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it because I want to see if a feather cushion is more efficient at containing an explosive force than an artificial one, only Mrs Hudson has forbidden me to carry out that particular experiment. Annoying, but then I'd rather blow up Mother's things anyway; she's got more of them to spare."

"Oh," was all I could think of to say.

There was a silence, during which Sherlock studied me and I tried very hard not to remember that the last time we'd been alone together, he'd seen me naked.

"I meant what I said last night, Ben," he said at last, his face serious. "If there's any way out of this adoption for you, take it and take it _now_. If you know anyone, a social worker or someone who can pull strings to get you out of here, maybe back to that foster family of yours, pick up the phone and call them right this second. Or use mine, if you don't want Mother to overhear. You don't want to grow up in this house. It's poison."

I studied him, unsure. It didn't sound like he was trying to turn me against his family out of spite; there was something very real in his voice and expression.

"_You_ did," I pointed out.

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "No, I all but moved out of the house and into the grounds when I was twelve and ran away the day after I turned fifteen. I haven't been back since, not until now."

I stared at him. Sherlock looked a lot younger than Mycroft, but at the same time, he wasn't a _young_ man, if you get what I mean.

"Twenty years," Sherlock supplied, after I'd been trying to puzzle it out for a few minutes.

Twenty years? I couldn't imagine that. The last time Sherlock had seen his mother, I hadn't even been born yet. I wondered how he'd lived on the grounds. _Where_ he'd lived. Had one of the staff taken him in or something?

"I'm here until early January, as you know, so you don't have to decide now," Sherlock added. "Just think about it."

For one moment, every instinct I had shot up inside me and urged me to accept his offer, to try and do everything I could to get myself out of this house, away from this family.

I wish I'd had the sense to listen, but of course I didn't.

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><p><strong>I didn't intend to finish this chapter today, but the writing bug just took over ;) Hope you enjoyed it and if you read, please review!<strong>


	5. A Taste Of Freedom

**bookgirl 121: **Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it! XD

**TheMeddler: **Aw, that's a shame :P But thanks XD

* * *

><p>I slept late the next morning. I dimly heard Mrs Holmes shrilling my name at around breakfast time, but I buried my head in the pillows and ignored her. I didn't feel much like eating.<p>

When I finally woke up, my throat had that tight, dry feeling it usually gets just before I come down with something, and my heart sank. I couldn't be ill now. John had promised to take me to Asda and after being confined to the estate for the last six months, there was no way I was going to miss out on that.

I know, I know, it sounds pathetic, getting all worked up over a stupid trip to the supermarket. But you try living in your own home for six months without even a walk outside and see how appealing it sounds to _you_. Even an estate the size of this one (some five thousand acres, according to Mrs Holmes) would drive you mad.

I ferreted around in my pillows until I located my bag of nibbles, dug out a samosa and took a bite. The pastry was cold, greasy and so crisp it hurt to swallow. I managed one, then gave up and turned my attention to the Dr Pepper. That slid down a little more easily, although the fizziness of it felt like someone jabbing pins into my sore throat.

I swung my legs out of bed and got gingerly to my feet. My ankle was still too painful to walk far, but I managed to limp over to the door and open it. I couldn't remember if John had said he was going out today or tomorrow, but I wasn't about to risk missing him.

I headed downstairs and into the breakfast room. One good thing about sleeping late; it meant that Mrs Holmes was nowhere to be seen. That was one meeting I wasn't looking forward to.

I wasn't alone, however, as Sherlock was standing at one end of the breakfast bar with a satsuma and a bowl full of some kind of yellow liquid in front of him and some kind of gun type thing in his hands.

"Morning," he said without looking up. "No, don't sit there—" as I started towards the chair at the end of the breakfast bar— "I'm not sure this is properly calibrated yet."

I perched as close to him as I could get, on the basis that Sherlock probably wouldn't blow _himself_ up with whatever-it-was and studied the bowl.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"An experiment," Sherlock replied, as though that should explain everything.

"Oh. What's in the bowl?"

"Orange juice."

I started to ask what kind of experiment he could possibly be doing with orange juice and a satsuma, but a sudden fit of coughing overtook me and I couldn't get the words out.

Sherlock glanced at me with a puzzled frown, then reached out and put a hand on my forehead before I could dodge.

"You're ill." It was a statement, not a theory.

"No I'm _not_!" I snapped, knocking his hand away. Bad enough my ankle was useless; I couldn't get a stupid cold too!

"Yes you are." He dropped his weird gun thing on the side and got to his feet. "Wait here; I'll get John."

"No!" I could imagine John's reaction only too well; it would involve the words _stay in bed_ and _don't go out_ and probably _drink plenty of fluids_ as well. Worse, he'd refuse to take me with him. "I'm not ill! I'm _not_! I'm—" I broke off, racking for something to say that would stop him leaving, and blurted out the first thing that came into my head. "What's your mother's name?"

Sherlock turned, eyebrows raised. "Rather an odd choice of question to stall me, Ben. Anyway, don't you mean _our_ mother?"

"No!" I was starting to think it might not be so bad claiming Sherlock as a brother, but not if that meant having a mother like Mrs Holmes as well.

Sherlock pulled out a chair, spun it around and sat down on it back to front, leaning his arms on the headrest and looking at me as though I was a specimen under a microscope.

"You have been adopted into this family – _god_ help you – you've been living here for the past six months, and you _still_ don't know her name?"

I shrugged. "It just...well, it never seemed a good idea to ask her. What is it?"

"Agatha."

"Agatha? But that's..._normal_." I frowned, wondering where this trait of weird names in the Holmes family had started. "What's your dad's name?"

"Pyrford."

Oh right.

"Where is he?" I said. There were dozens of photographs all around the house and on the walls, pictures of Mrs Holmes and of Mycroft, but none of Mr. Holmes, nor, now that I thought about it, of Sherlock.

"Dead."

"...Oh." There didn't seem to be much I could say to that. I remembered when my dad died. Most of all, I remembered that it had been a sunny day, which seemed odd at the time. People weren't supposed to die on nice sunny days. "Um. Sorry."

"Oh, don't be. It happened a long time ago, and we weren't particularly close."

"What was he like?" I asked.

"I don't really remember, to tell you the truth. I was five when he died, and he never spent a whole lot of time at home when he was alive. If you want to know about him, you really should ask Mycroft. Why?"

I shrugged. "Just...this is sort of my family now. I'd like to know more about it. I mean, I didn't even know you existed until I heard Mycroft and Mrs Holmes talking about you. I thought Mycroft was an only child. What happened to your dad?"

"He went out looking for a contract killer."

I shifted my weight. I thought I knew how this story was going to end, but I wanted to hear it for myself. "And?"

"He found her," Sherlock answered, proving me right. "Came back to us in a box. His head, at least; they never found the rest of him. Since Mother found out he was having an affair with his driver just before he left, I'm not entirely convinced this was an accident."

I stared at him.

"His _driver_?" I echoed. "Why?"

"No idea. Maybe he thought the secretary would be too cliché." Glancing over my shoulder, Sherlock said, "Ah, John, perfect timing. Ben's feeling a little under the weather. I think he may be coming down with a cold."

"No I'm _not_!" I insisted, and then sneezed four times.

"Of course you're not." Sherlock shouldered the black tube thing. "Looks like I'll have to finish this experiment some other time, without any innocent bystanders. Maybe I can persuade Mycroft to come and sit in here for a spell."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, can't you lay off your brother for just one—" He broke off as he caught sight of the black tube/gun/whatever, then said in a completely different tone of voice, "Please tell me that isn't a flamethrower."

"Of course it's not a flamethrower, what would I want with a flamethrower? No, this is an incendiary unit of a military nature which is going to be instrumental in my exploding cushion experiment. See you later, Ben. Do enjoy your brief taste of freedom today, won't you? God knows when you'll get another one," I heard him mutter, not quite under his breath, then he strolled out, hefting the flamethrower as he went.

"You've made quite an impression on him," John said.

"Yeah, right," I muttered.

He smiled a little. "You don't know Sherlock."

"I—"

"No," he interrupted, "you really don't. I couldn't believe it when I saw the way he treated you at dinner; all that _can I pass you anything, _dropping bread on your plate and smuggling all those leftovers upstairs for you. That's not Sherlock. Usually he lives in his own private little universe and never notices that anyone else even exists unless he wants them for something. I've never known him be that attentive towards anyone, especially not someone he only just met."

I considered this, frowning slightly.

"I thought he was just being polite," I said aloud.

"Ah, no. No, that's the one thing Sherlock's never been. He's alright really, but it takes a lot of work to realize that. Now, how are you _really_ feeling?"

"My throat hurts a little," I admitted. "But it's nothing serious. I'm fine. I'm okay to go shopping with you."

John raised amused looking eyebrows. "Oh, are you? Did you ask Mrs Holmes?"

I groaned. I'd hoped he'd forgotten about that.

"Sorry, Ben. Pulling rank on her as a doctor is one thing, but kidnapping you is something else, even if it's just for an afternoon. If she says it's okay, and if you're feeling up to it, then I'll take you with me. I'm leaving in about fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes. How was I supposed to get permission in fifteen minutes? Mrs Holmes is the kind of person who sulks. She'd never call it that, of course, but I think that's what it is. If you don't tell her exactly what she wants to hear or if you argue with her, she withdraws and refuses to admit you even exist until she thinks you've groveled enough, which can take days sometimes.

It wasn't until I glanced out the window and saw Mycroft's car parked with the others that another idea occurred to me. Mrs Holmes doted on Mycroft so much that if he gave me permission to go, she wasn't likely to object.

A little determined limping on my part brought me to the library. I'd had a feeling Mycroft might be there – he's very much the books-and-armchair kind of guy, if you know what I mean – and I was right; he was settled in one of the chairs, reading the paper and looking every inch the lord of the manor. All he needed was a couple of big floppy dogs sprawled out in front of the fire and the picture would have been complete.

He looked up long enough to see who it was, then went back to the paper. For the first time I wondered if he ever read books. Did he have a favorite author? Watch TV? He didn't seem like the Xbox type, but there must be something he enjoyed. Maybe he played chess or Othello, although I wasn't sure who with. Even his clothes were the same as he wore for the office. Didn't he ever want to kick back and relax in jeans and a t-shirt? Did he even _own_ a pair of jeans and a t-shirt?

It was weird. I mean, how could I be a part of this family for six months and still know nothing about my adoptive brother except his name and the fact that he lived somewhere in London?

I limped in, sat down on the nearest chair and cleared my throat.

"Um. Mycroft?"

He glanced at me, looking a little surprised. It was probably the first time I'd ever tried to start a conversation with him.

"Yes?"

I bit my lip, trying to gather enough courage to ask him and chickened out at the last minute.

"Do you know Sherlock's got a flamethrower?" I said instead.

Mycroft sighed. "No, but that does explain the increasingly frantic messages I've been getting from work. One of these days he's going to get me fired. I shouldn't worry about it though; while my brother's behavior may be erratic, even he's not going to set fire to a building he happens to be standing in. But you didn't come all the way down here just to tell me what he's up to."

That was very true, and not just because I wasn't quite sure what Sherlock was up to.

"John says...he says I can go to Asda with him today if I want," I said. "And I do. Want, I mean. But he said I've gotta make sure it's okay first, so..." I let the sentence trail off, hoping Mycroft was smart enough to pick up on it and also hoping he wasn't the kind of man to hold a grudge over a silly little thing like having a cup of tea thrown in his face and being called a bastard.

He stared at me for a moment or two, then said, "Let me make sure I understand this. You're volunteering – in fact, you're _asking_ – to go to the supermarket?"

"Yeah." His lack of hostility emboldened me enough to add, "It's okay for _you_. You can drive away, or...have people drive you," I amended. "I can't!"

Mycroft actually folded his paper when I said that, the better to stare at me. I squirmed, feeling like an insect on a pin. I don't know what it is about him; whenever he looks at me, it's like he's looking right into my head.

"Do you mean to tell me that you have been here ever since you arrived? For _six months_?"

I shifted my weight. "Well..."

"Well what?"

"Well, Mrs Holmes took me to the GP and the dentist two days after I arrived, just to get me registered and checked over, and then took me clothes shopping."

"And since then?"

I shook my head. "Can I go?"

Mycroft raised thin eyebrows. "After your little outburst last night?"

I took comfort in the fact that this wasn't quite a _no._

"Did Sherlock tell you about that?" I asked.

"You've seen the two of us together, Benedict. Do you think Sherlock and I have the kind of relationship which involves cozy little chats over a cup of coffee?"

I wasn't sure how to answer that and so I said, "_Please_ can I go to Asda with John?"

Mycroft sighed. "Well, if you're that desperate for a change of scene, then I suppose you'd better. Thinking about it, it's probably a good idea to absent yourself for a while, at least until Sherlock has had time to blow up those cushions." Glancing up and seeing my open mouth, he offered me a thin smile. "There's very little I don't know, Benedict, especially when it concerns my little brother. Off you go."

I stared at him, my jaw still hanging. "You mean...I can go with him? You're giving me permission?"

"If that's what you want to call it, then yes." Mycroft waited until I was in the doorway, then said, "Do remember to say good morning to Mother before you leave, won't you?"

I bit back the first reply that came to mind, which centered around the idea that I would rather swim naked in piranha infested waters than say a single word to Mrs Holmes.

"Where is she?" I asked, as politely as I could.

"In the morning room, I expect. She usually sits there for an hour or so after eating."

I hobbled out without another word. I knew Mycroft well enough by now to know that he'd check to see if I'd done it, and if he discovered I hadn't, then I could kiss goodbye to any other future trips out.

A long and painful walk brought me to the morning room. I try to avoid it whenever possible; not only is it packed full of those silly little china ornaments of girls in frilly dresses, but everything else in there is frilled and chintzed to within an inch of its life. Even the _carpet _has a flower pattern woven into it.

Mycroft was right though; Mrs Holmes was in there, sitting by the window with a cup of tea. I swear she lives on the stuff.

"Um. Hi," I said awkwardly.

Mrs Holmes looked at me, then turned her head away. I swallowed, then went on.

"I'm sorry for what I said yesterday. I was stupid and childish." (I didn't really think I'd been either of those things, but I didn't want to give her any cause for complaint). "So...uh...yeah. I just wanted to tell you that."

Nothing. I may as well have been talking to the marble statues on either side of the door. Oh well; I'd done what Mycroft wanted. Now it was time to do what I wanted.

I limped outside to the cars, mouth dry with anticipation. _Finally_. After six months, I was getting a change of scenery.

John was leaning against his car, wearing the same parka I'd seen him in before and paging through a magazine. He looked up as I approached.

"Well?"

"It's okay!" I forced myself not to beam like a lunatic. "I can go!"

John grinned. "Great! Hop in, then."

I opened the door and scrambled into the passenger seat as fast as I could, snapped the belt across my waist, and waited impatiently for John to join me.

Once he was in and we were moving, I couldn't sit still. I kept twisting around, trying to see out of all the windows at once, until a particularly nasty flash of pain shot up my ankle. At that point, I settled down a little and started quizzing John.

"Did Sherlock give you a long list?"

"Fairly long. Should be in there for about an hour."

"An _hour_." I slumped in my seat a little. John glanced over at me, lips quirking in a smile.

"You were the one who wanted to come," he reminded me.

"I thought I'd have longer." I moped for a few minutes, then a thought struck me and I brightened. "Can we stop off at some other shops on the way?"

"It's Boxing Day, Ben. I'm not sure any other shops will be open."

"Well...can you at least slow down a little? I'm sure you're speeding."

"I'm going twenty five because of the road conditions, and we happen to be in a forty."

"Oh." I slumped a little further, playing with my fingers. "Well, is it very far to Asda?"

"Should be about twenty minutes, I think."

Twenty minutes each way. Forty minutes, plus an hour in Asda...that wasn't very long. I'd hoped to have at least two or three hours away from home.

"Can't you slow down and make it thirty?" I pleaded. "I can pay you. Mycroft gave me some money for Christmas."

"Blimey, you are desperate, aren't you? No. Sherlock said, and I quote, that if he had to wait even one minute longer than necessary, he'd rearrange all the labels on my medical supplies, and he has an annoying habit of carrying out his threats. Look on the bright side; at least you're getting out. How's your ankle?"

"Okay. I'm sure it would be fine if you wanted to, you know, take a look in every part of the store. I wouldn't want you to miss anything."

"What you mean is, you don't want to go back to the estate."

I shrugged, squirmed a little in embarrassment and then looked out of the window with single-minded intensity and didn't answer. The estate is miles from the nearest town and we were driving past empty fields, which weren't very interesting to look at, but were at least a change.

Eventually, the fields gave way to houses and gardens, many of which had families in them either having snowball fights or building snowmen together.

Watching them brought a lump to my throat and I swallowed. I remembered building snowmen with my mum and dad ages ago. There hadn't been much snow, but Mum had taught me how to make a small snowball and roll it around and around until it got big enough to make into a snowman. We'd ended up with about ten medium sized ones in the end, and then we'd taken it in turns making snowballs and throwing them at our snowmen, trying to knock their heads off.

Mrs Holmes and Mycroft wouldn't be interested in anything like that. Sherlock...no. He seemed cooler than his older brother, but something said he wasn't the snowman building, snowball fighting type of guy. I wasn't sure about John.

Once we got into Merle, it took fifteen minutes for John to find Asda, and another ten of driving in circles around the car park before we could get a space which, luckily, wasn't too far from the main entrance.

Inside, the place was packed. After six months with the same faces, I couldn't stop staring at everyone we saw. I wanted to drink in every detail of their features, to learn everything about them.

At least, that was part of it. The other part made me feel suddenly shy and nervous. If you've ever spent a long time mostly alone and then gone into a crowded place with chatter and noise all around you, you'll know what I mean. It's like your senses go into overload.

Using the trolley for support, I limped over to the fruit and veg section, where I picked up a net of kiwis and looked around for a basket, only to find that they'd all been taken. Seeing my dilemma, John nodded towards the trolley.

"Tell you what, just stick whatever you want in there. We can sort it out at the checkout."

I did what he said, adding several microwave cheeseburgers, two six packs, a family pack of Mars bars and a DVD (I wanted to get _Hellraiser_, but there was no way I could pass for eighteen and John flatly refused to buy it for me, so I had to settle for part two of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_).

It was over far too soon, which is something I never thought I'd say about a trip to the supermarket. We were back in the fruit and veg section, John having discovered that he'd forgotten the bananas, and I was wondering just what a dragonfruit tasted like and how you were supposed to go about eating it when John said, "Right, I think that's it."

I tore my gaze away from the exotic fruit section and stared at him. "What?"

"That's it," he repeated. "C'mon. Time to go."

"Can't I have a little longer?" I begged. "Please? I haven't seen the frozen food section yet."

John gave me a look that wavered between disbelief and amusement. "Ben, it's the supermarket, not the zoo!"

"Yeah, but...but my ankle's hurting really badly!" That wasn't a lie. I wouldn't have missed a trip out for anything, even just a trip to the supermarket, but I guess my ankle felt differently.

"Well, if it's hurting really badly, I think we should get you back home so you can rest it."

Okay, so that one didn't work. I cast about for something else and tried again.

"Yeah, but shouldn't we buy something frozen to put on it? You know, for the swelling?"

"No."

I blinked, surprised.

"No?" I echoed.

"You only need to do that when you first injure it. After that, the damage has been done and there's not much point. It would be like running cold water over a two day old burn."

Oh. I wondered if it was worth trying to argue with him on that score, but after all, he was a doctor and probably knew more about it than I did.

"Okay, but can't I sit and rest it for a few minutes? Gather my strength?"

"Oh, right. So all of a sudden your ankle's flaring up again _just_ as we're going back to the car. Bit of a coincidence, isn't it?"

"I only need a couple of minutes' rest." I cast a longing glance at the soft chairs against the wall and added, "Maybe half an hour."

"Ben, I am not sitting in Asda with you for half an hour!"

"You could wait in the car," I suggested hopefully.

"I'm not sitting in the car by myself for half an hour either, nor am I going to abandon a thirteen year old kid in the supermarket." John didn't sound angry, but there was a note in his voice which said he wasn't going to give in on this one.

"Well, can I at least look at the magazines before we go?" I asked, with my best pleading expression.

John looked at me, then let out a sigh accompanied by a half smile, which I took to mean _Oh...alright then._

"Go on," he said, proving me right.

I grabbed three gaming magazines and one biking one, then limped after John to the checkout, my spirits dropping further with every step. I wanted to stay out, wanted to see a little more of the surrounding area (although my ankle was now throbbing quite painfully and I wouldn't mind sitting down).

"Will you take the long way home?" I asked him as soon as we were outside.

"I don't know the long way home."

"I do!"

John gave me a long look.

"You told me you'd never been off the estate," he pointed out.

My heart sank and I glanced around, looking for some other excuse to put off our return to the estate. It wasn't just not wanting to be there; I was getting nervous that Mrs Holmes would spot us coming in, demand to know where I'd been and blow my cover. I wanted to put off that moment as long as possible.

"Um..." I began, then stopped.

"Tell you what. If you come back to the car right now without any more stalling, I'll take you with me next time I go, so long as you get permission from Mrs Holmes again."

I wondered what he'd say if he knew I hadn't got it this time, then forced the thought away. I doubted Mrs Holmes had missed me. Even if she had, Mycroft would have told her where I was. So long as she didn't see me coming back in John's car and comment on it, John didn't have to know I'd snuck out.

"You promise?" I asked.

"Promise. _If_ you get permission."

I subsided and climbed into the car. I didn't like the thought of asking Mrs Holmes for permission next time either; if her mood this morning was anything to go by, it would be ages before she was ready to even acknowledge my existence, much less do something nice for me.

The journey home passed mostly in silence. I vaguely remember John doing his best to start up some kind of conversation, but I was too worried about what Mrs Holmes would say if she found out what I'd done and too depressed at the thought of this trip being over to answer him much.

When we arrived back at the estate, it was quarter past one. Lunch in the Holmes family is always served at one precisely, so John and I left the shopping in the car to unload later and headed into the dining room.

"You're late," Mycroft remarked.

I don't know what John was going to say in response to him, but he glanced at me before replying, so I think he must have changed his mind.

"Yes. Sorry. It was a bit of a hectic journey back."

My heart stopped, but Mrs Holmes didn't seem to pick up on John's words. Probably she thought he was talking about getting back in from a walk or something.

I was actually quite hungry, and the lettuce part of the whatever-it-was-dish looked more or less edible, so I stabbed it with my fork, folded it several times so I could fit the whole leaf into my mouth, and began eating.

"I understand the two of you spent the morning together," Mrs Holmes said, addressing John.

"Yes." John glanced up from cutting his piece of turkey, which looked like it had been cooked with Sherlock's flamethrower. "Yes, we went to Asda and got some shopping. Didn't we, Ben?"

Somehow I managed to swallow my lettuce and managed a tiny squeak by way of an answer.

"To Asda," Mrs Holmes repeated. "That's nice."

"Yeah. Course, it was a bit crowded." (Whydid John have to talk to everyone? _Why_?) "Took us ten minutes to get parked."

"Which is why I sent the two of you instead of going myself," Sherlock interjected. "Ben—"

I knew him well enough by now to know what he was about to say, and so I handed him the bread basket.

"Thank you. Anyone else want any? John? Ben? Mother, how about you?"

I didn't say anything, just sat there with my fingers crossed under the table, hoping and praying Sherlock's little diversionary tactic would work. I should have known better.

Mrs Holmes gave me an icy look. "In future, Benedict, you are _not_ to leave the estate without permission. Is that clear?"

John turned a shocked look on me, and I immediately passed it on to Mycroft, who swallowed his mouthful, wiped his mouth and set his napkin down on the table before speaking.

"He did have permission, Mother."

Mrs Holmes stiffened. "He most certainly did _not_!"

"He asked me this morning if he could go and help Dr. Watson with his shopping in Asda, and I said that he could."

It was worth everything I'd gone through since arriving here just to see the look on Mrs Holmes' face at this news.

"He should have come to me, not you."

"Yes, and I'm quite sure he would have done, were it not for the fact that you were still in bed and he didn't want to disturb you."

I snatched up my napkin and pretended to be wiping my own mouth in an effort to disguise how low my jaw was hanging. _Mycroft_, covering up for me?

"On a similar note, Mother, isn't it about time he had his own driver?" Mycroft went on. "The boy needs his independence, after all. We can't keep imposing on Dr. Watson's good nature."

Better and better. I wasn't sure what had happened to bring Mycroft onto my side, but I hoped it would last.

"It was one trip to Asda, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted. "Hardly constitutes an imposition."

I also hoped that Sherlock would fall into a tub of something warm and sticky for saying that. If imposing on John's good nature, as Mycroft put it, would get me my own driver, then I was prepared to stand up and swear that I'd imposed like no one had ever imposed before.

"Well, perhaps not," Mycroft conceded. "But he's not going to be here all the time, and then what? You can't expect Benedict to stay inside the grounds until he's sixteen."

"Benedict stays here, Mycroft, unless he's with either me or you. I'm not going to risk losing _this_ son."

"Have you lost sons before, then?" I asked her. I was a little sick of them discussing me as though I wasn't there, although at least this time they weren't doing it in Latin.

"She's talking about me," Sherlock said flatly. "And you realize I will have to string you upside down for a week for making me say this, Mother, but Mycroft does have a point. Ben needs his own driver. I had one when I was his age." He tore a piece of bread off his roll with his teeth, then said around his mouthful, "Whatever happened to Alan, anyway?"

"I fired him, of course. I wasn't about to keep him, not after he lost my poor son."

"Oh stop it, Mother, you're going to make me vomit. Of course he lost me. That was the idea."

"I hardly think Benedict's going to settle in here if he keeps rushing out all over the place," Mrs Holmes said icily.

"Hardly think he'll be good for anything at all if he doesn't," Sherlock countered. "You may find this hard to believe, but there _is_ a world outside of this estate, just waiting to be discovered."

"Yes, and speaking of discoveries, Sherlock, your brother tells me you were performing some kind of experiment on a satsuma with a flamethrower."

I froze, the fork halfway to my mouth, and prayed Sherlock wouldn't think Mrs Holmes was talking about me.

Sherlock swallowed his mouthful. "Don't be absurd. What the hell would a satsuma be doing with a flamethrower? Well, might come in useful for self-defense on Christmas Day, I suppose, but—"

"_Sherlock_!"

"Don't _Sherlock_ me, Mother. You really should be more precise with your grammar. Anyway, considering the damage I did to your three best cushions, you should have been relieved at my experimenting on something less expensive."

John glanced at me and said in a voice too low to carry (having a huge dining table can really be an advantage sometimes) "And _you_ shouldn't have lied about having permission."

"I didn't lie!" I protested. "I got permission; Mycroft said I could go. "

"I said you had to ask Mrs Holmes, not Mycroft."

"I didn't think she'd let me go," I mumbled. "And she knew where I was; Mycroft would have told her. It's not like I went off behind her back."

"No, that's _exactly _what it was like, Ben. Getting permission from Mycroft was better than not getting it at all, I'll give you that, but you still should have asked Mrs Holmes for permission."

"But she wouldn't have given it to me!" I protested.

On the other side, Sherlock, who apparently had ears like a bat, snickered.

"He does have a point."

"You—just...don't start, okay?"

"Don't start what?" Sherlock queried. "You're the one who keeps insisting I need more practice in _caring_." He drawled that last word, turning it into more of a sneer.

"Yes, but not—"

"Oh, I see, _you_ meant I should only care about those people you _want_ me to care about; in other words, complete strangers." He pulled a mock-sad face. "Sorry, Ben. Looks like John doesn't want me caring about family members. You're on your own."

"Sherlock, _stop_ this, alright?" John ordered. "Stop it now. Play with Mycroft's mind if you have to – at least he can fight you on your own level – but you're not playing with mine and I _really _am not going to let you play with Ben's."

"That's hardly fair, John. Everyone else around this table has played with his feelings. Why can't I have a turn?"

"_Sherlock_!" The reproach came from three people in unison.

Something snapped in my mind just then. One minute I was fine, the next...it was like I was drowning in static. That's kind of a weird description, I know, but it's also the most accurate I can manage.

Calmly, not rushing or looking at anyone, I got to my feet. On some level I was still aware of what I was doing, but it felt odd, like someone else was controlling me from a distance.

I picked up my glass of water and held it up, turning it around in my fingers, watching as the liquid caught the light. Pretty. Then, my movements slow and deliberate, I tipped it up and let the water pour down onto my plate. That was pretty too, the light flickering through the drops and turning them into a cascade of diamonds, diamonds which pattered onto my plate and merged into one another.

No one said anything. Even Mrs Holmes seemed to be at a loss for words.

Still calm, I let the glass slide out of my fingers. It landed on the table with a faint _thud_, but didn't break.

That done, I turned and limped out, closing the door softly behind me, and made my way upstairs to my bedroom, where I sat down on my bed and stared into space.

I'm not sure what happened next. It's like...having clicked out of reality I just clicked back into it. The weird, puppetlike feeling had gone; I was fully myself again.

I looked at the radio clock on my bedside table and felt a sudden shock; it was ten past four. Had I really been sitting there doing nothing for over two hours?

Feeling a little shaky, I got to my feet, clinging onto my desk for support. I waited until I felt a little surer of myself, then headed over to the door. I had no idea where I was going; I only knew I didn't want to sit up there by myself just then. Maybe John—no, John was probably still angry over what had happened earlier.

I hobbled around the house for a while until I came to the lounge, which was empty except for Sherlock; he was lying on the sofa with a book in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was also using one of Mrs Holmes' finest bone china saucers as an ashtray. She was going to kill him when she found out, and about the only consolation I could think of was that at least she wouldn't blame me.

For a few minutes, I just stood there and stared at my adoptive brother. I couldn't think of anything to say, and I wasn't sure he'd listen to me even if I could.

"Something bothering you?" Sherlock drawled.

"Yes, something's bothering me! Your stupid retard family is bothering me!"

"Oh. I thought you were just feeling bad because you betrayed John's trust and in doing so got him into serious trouble with Mother and Mycroft and disappointed the only person on this estate who's bothered to show you a moment's kindness. My mistake."

"I didn't betray his trust," I protested, although my voice shook a little.

"Yes you did. He trusted you to do what he asked, and you didn't. John is fundamentally a very moral man. There's nothing he hates worse than dishonesty."

"Yeah, well, he's got no idea what it's like here! You and John are the first new faces I've seen! I can't even go out for a walk because the stupid gate's locked! I can't look out 'cause the whole place is walled up and no matter what I do it's not good enough! I just have to say, do and think exactly what Mrs Holmes orders me to. I don't talk right, I don't dress right, my posture isn't perfect and I wasn't born knowing everything a Holmes should know, and I'm not allowed to stay in touch with any friends from my old life and I can't even find new friends because I'm not allowed to leave and the last time Mrs Holmes brought back a nice boy for me to play with, as she put it, he bugged me so much I pushed him in the goldfish pond!"

Sherlock chuckled low in his throat and I rounded on him.

"It's not funny!" I said stridently.

"Oh, I don't know. I found it extremely funny when I was a child."

When I gawked at him without answering, he rolled his eyes. "Please. Do you really think that you're the only one ever to hate this house? This _life_?"

I stared at him. "Well...yeah. I mean, they're your family."

"Oh, I see, and _family matters_," Sherlock drawled. "How quaint. At least I got away from here before Mother could subject me to her idea of matchmaking, unlike my dear brother. If I cared for him in the slightest, I might actually have felt a little sorry for him. Mother can be very determined. Quite how Mycroft managed to retain his bachelorhood, I have no idea."

"Matchmaking?" I echoed nervously.

"Mm. Quite common among families like ours." Sherlock sucked on his cigarette and blew smoke out at the ceiling. "You'll be in for it too, as soon as you reach a good breeding age. Fifteen or sixteen's usually the time to start."

I went scarlet. "But...Mrs Holmes was talking about uni and—"

"Oh, you'll get to go through all that first," Sherlock agreed. "Mother just likes to get a head start, so that by the time you collect your degree, you're all ready to tie the nuptial knot. You end up well educated and married, ready to start producing grandchildren, and she can sit here, pat herself on the back and compliment herself on what a wonderful job she did of raising you."

"She's mental," I muttered.

"Extremely." Sherlock glanced at his cigarette, which he'd smoked almost down to the filter, then rolled the stub idly between his fingers before crushing it out in his makeshift ashtray. "I told you before, Ben, if you have even half a microgram of common sense, call your social worker and tell her to get you out of here. This place...it gets into your mind, into your pores and then it eats away at you until there's nothing left. Why do you think I was so determined to leave? I could see what was coming; a whole life where Mother dearest picked out my hobbies, my clothes, my friends...everything, in fact."

I felt a shiver crawl down my spine.

"I'm not going to let her do that to me," I said, in a voice which was a lot braver than I felt.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "That's equally dangerous. You can only push people so far before they push back, and a push from Mother would probably send you flying."

I shrugged.

"You don't believe me," Sherlock stated. It wasn't a question. "You should, you know. My family – _our_ family, I suppose I should say – isn't what you might call tolerant when it comes to imperfections."

I felt a nasty jolt run through me. I wondered how they'd feel if they found out about my sleepwalking.

"Sherlock?"

He glanced at me. "Hm?"

"Did you ever have a, well, a sort of problem? Like, something you knew you should take to a doctor but you were too embarrassed to bring it up?"

Sherlock stared at me, then closed his book.

"Which embarrassing problem have you—oh, of course. The sleepwalking."

So much for keeping it a closely-guarded secret. I swallowed, feeling my face go red.

"How long have you known?" I asked.

"Oh, from the beginning. When we first met, you were barefoot in my maze and barely conscious. Snow was half covering you so you'd clearly been out there for some time. If you had crept out for a little late night exploration, you would have a coat or at least some shoes. I've never heard of anyone walking barefoot in the snow before, at least, not voluntarily. Mazes are hard enough to navigate in broad daylight, let alone after dark, but if you'd gone in there and got lost during the day, I would have found you then. You went in when it was dark, so why? Can't have been on your way to the middle, as no one besides me has ever made it there and even if you could find the doors leading to the inner parts of the maze, they're all locked and I have the only keys. You had no torch, so clearly you weren't out for an evening stroll and you were in a snowdrift when I found you; if you'd been fully awake when you'd gone in there, you would have kept moving. No, you were too tired to think clearly, but not because it was late; it was barely eight o'clock when I found you. That coupled with the fact that you had no shoes tells me you were wandering around in your sleep. Obvious."

Oh. There wasn't much I could say to that.

"Not to mention you also did it that same night I brought you in," Sherlock added.

I stared at him. "But...my ankle. I thought the pain would wake me?" Then again, I'd thought that same thing here and look what happened.

"Yes, so did I. Apparently we were both wrong; you came into my bedroom at around midnight. Seemed to think my bed should be yours."

I felt my face grow cold, then hot again. _Why_ couldn't the ground ever open up and swallow me just when I needed it to? Was that really too much to ask?

"I tried to..." I began, but couldn't finish the sentence. This is one reason I hate sleepwalking. I usually end up embarrassing myself in some way. Trying to get into bed with Sherlock wasn't quite as bad as the very first time I'd sleepwalked, when I'd ended up locked outside the house in my underwear, but it still ranked in my top three Most Humiliating Moments.

"Yeah. I had to get out of bed and take you back to the couch myself. You went happily enough."

"I'm sorry."

"What on earth for? It wasn't your fault." Sherlock took a sip of coffee, then went back to his phone.

"Do you...know anything about it?"

It was a strange question to ask him, especially since I still had no idea what he did for a living, but he seemed to know about everything else.

Sherlock considered it for a few seconds, then shook his head.

"Not enough to tell you how to stop it. You'll need John for that."

I hesitated. It wasn't just embarrassment about sleepwalking that stopped me going to John; I hadn't forgotten his reaction after lunch. I'd been avoiding him since then, not sure if he was still angry with me.

"He won't bite your head off, Ben," Sherlock informed me. "For all his faults, John's never been one to bear a grudge."

I hesitated. "So you think I should ask him about it?"

"Well, let me put it this way. I can't help you, so either tell John or tell my mother and have her take you to the GP. She'll do it, if that's what you're worried about."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. The more troubled your behavior is, the more she can pat herself on the back for taking you in and looking after you."

"I'm not her stupid trophy!" I said stridently.

"No, Mycroft's her stupid trophy. I believe Mother has something rather more special in mind for _you_."

I stared at him, the fire in my belly suddenly no more than cold, dead ash. That same cold foreboding was creeping over me again.

"W-what do you mean?"

"Exactly what I say. Hadn't you better be getting down to John? It's getting dark and I rather doubt Mother will bother with the outside lights, since we're not expecting any visitors."

Something told me that it would be useless to quiz him anymore, especially since he seemed to want me gone for the moment. I wondered if John would know. I didn't think he knew much more about Sherlock's family than I did – in fact, since I'd been living with them for six months, I probably knew more – but he and Sherlock seemed close and I thought if my adoptive brother confided in anyone, it would probably be him.

It took a very long time to limp down to the gardener's cottage, and more than once I thought savagely that Sherlock could at least have driven me down. I'll be honest, though, and admit that it took a lot longer than it _should_ have taken as at one point I lost my nerve and started back. I'd almost reached the steps to the door before I forced myself to turn around. My sleepwalking excursion into Sherlock's maze had left me more shaken up than I wanted to admit. Admittedly I hadn't sleepwalked since, but last night I'd had a vivid nightmare about being trapped in there. I guess it was better than my usual nightmare about fire, but I still didn't like it. If John did have some kind of pill or something that could cure my sleepwalking, I didn't want to put it off for even one night.

For a long time I stood there, staring at the door, my heart hammering under my ribs. I wasn't afraid of what he might say, but I _was_ aware that the last time we'd spoken, he'd been angry over the whole permission thing and I'd been trying to drown my lunch.

I swallowed painfully (I really was coming down with something; I just hoped it wasn't anything too bad) then raised my hand and knocked.

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><p><strong>Okay, this was a long one but still, I hope you liked it and if you read, please review!<strong>


	6. Belated Gifts

**Zombie-Slaying Ninja:** Thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying it :D

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><p>For a few minutes, nobody answered. I didn't know whether I was glad or sorry about that. I'd just about made up my mind to run (or at least limp) back to the house when the door opened and John stood there, looking a little surprised.<p>

"Ben, hello. You looking for Sherlock?"

I swallowed, then shook my head. At least he hadn't slammed the door in my face. Or yelled at me. Or both.

"Can I...can I talk to you about something?" I asked.

He looked surprised, but nodded. "Yeah, course you can. Come on in. How's your ankle?"

"Hurts," I admitted.

"Need a hand?"

I started to insist that I was fine, but something in his face changed my mind halfway and I said, "Maybe...a little?"

John smiled and I felt the knot in my chest loosen a little. If he was smiling, things couldn't be that bad.

"C'mon then."

He pulled my arm over his shoulders and helped me over to the couch. I sat down with my face burning, already wishing I hadn't started this but determined to see it through. Maybe it would have been better if he _had_ slammed the door in my face; at least then I wouldn't have to bring this up.

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" John asked.

I racked my brains trying to think of a way to ask him that would cause me the least humiliation, then it hit me.

"I...um...well, I have this friend," I said slowly. "He's got a problem."

There. That was good. At least now John wouldn't think it was me who was sleepwalking.

"Oh, a friend. I see." John settled himself next to me. "And does this friend have a name?"

"Um, yeah. Ken."

John raised his eyebrows, looking like he was trying hard not to smile. "Right. Okay. And is, ah, _Ken_ in trouble?"

"He's...well, he _used_ to have a problem, but he kinda stopped it. Only now he's started it again."

"Has he been to the doctor? Or isn't it that kind of problem?"

I squirmed. My throat had constricted, making talking very hard.

"Um. I don't know. But _you're_ a doctor, right? I mean, a real doctor? 'Cause I, um, I sort of promised Ken I'd ask you about this. His problem, I mean."

"Alright." A little more serious now. "And what exactly is Ken's problem?"

"He..." I hesitated. "It's...well, a little stupid. I mean, it's something only little kids do so he, um, doesn't like to talk about it."

"Hmm. How old is Ken?"

"Fourteen. Well, fourteen in January."

"Okay. So similar sort of age to you, then?"

Was he buying it? I hesitated, then nodded.

"Yeah. But _not _me!"

"Right, yes. Not you. So Ken's got a problem, has he?"

I nodded again.

"And he hasn't talked to the doctor about it. I see. What about his mum? Has he talked to her?"

I stared at him, forgetting my cover story. "Are you kidding? You've met her! She's mental! And she's _not_ his mum," I added, not quite under my breath.

"No, I haven't met her. I don't know anyone named Ken."

"Oh. Yeah. Um. Well...she's kinda like Mrs Holmes. And I wouldn't go to her and so _Ken_ wouldn't go to _his_ mother and...and so he—you're not buying this whole friend thing, are you?" I interrupted myself.

"Nope," John answered, although he was smiling. "So why don't I get us both a drink and you can tell me what's really bothering you?"

I felt myself go scarlet, but nodded.

"Alright. What d'you fancy? Coke? Orange juice?"

"Can I have both?"

He looked at me a little askance. "What, in the one glass?"

"Yeah. About a quarter juice and the rest Coke."

"Is this something you have often?"

"Not here, but my dad—" I broke off abruptly. I'm not allowed to talk about my birth family. According to Mrs Holmes, doing so makes me ungrateful and nobody wants to hear about them anyway.

"Your dad what?"

I didn't want to answer that. Well, no, I sort of did, but what if Mrs Holmes was right about it making me ungrateful? I couldn't care less what she thought, but I didn't want John thinking badly of me.

"Where did you get Coke?" I said instead.

"I didn't; you did. You bought it at Asda this morning, remember?"

Now that he mentioned it, I did. In our hurry to get inside for lunch, John and I had left the stuff in the car.

Thinking of that brought on another, less pleasant realization; even though John had told me to put my stuff in the trolley and that we'd sort it out at the checkout, I'd completely forgotten and he'd ended up paying for my stuff as well as his.

I rummaged in my pockets, trying to find the hundred pounds Mycroft had given me.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Um, how much do I owe you?"

He glanced around, a puzzled look on his face. "Owe me?"

"You know, for Asda. We were going to sort everything out at the checkout but we didn't."

"Oh, that. Don't worry about it."

"Really?"

"Really." He came over, my drink in one hand and an open bottle of beer in the other. "Call it a late Christmas present."

I felt myself grow hot. "Really? Um. Thanks."

"Don't mention it. It works out for both of us, since I had no idea what to get you." John offered me my drink, then frowned. "Are you sure you want to drink this? It looks disgusting."

"I know, but it's nice."

John eyed it a little dubiously. I could sort of see why; Coke and orange juice combined looks like the kind of liquid you'd scoop out of a ditch.

"Mind if I try a bit?"

"If I can try some of your beer," I bargained.

He studied me for a few seconds, then held out his bottle with a conspiratorial smile. "Go on then. Just a little, and don't tell Mrs Holmes."

I swapped my glass for his bottle and took a small mouthful. It was a strange taste. I'd had the odd sip of wine on special occasions, but this was nothing like that. For some reason, the flavor I kept thinking of was _bread_.

"Like it?" John asked.

I frowned, trying to work out whether I did or not.

"I dunno," I admitted. "It's kinda weird." Keeping half an eye on him, I added, "Maybe I better drink some more to see."

"Oh no you don't." John fielded the bottle on its way to my mouth and replaced it with my glass.

I sipped at the sweet mixture. Drinking Coke and orange juice brought back memories of family barbecues, when Dad and I would get through a whole family sized bottle of Coke in one meal.

We sat in silence for several minutes. Well, John was silent, at least. I kept starting and stopping various sentences, trying to get up enough courage to tell him what was happening and losing my nerve halfway through each time. John didn't seem inclined to push me; instead he just sat there, taking the occasional swig from his beer.

Finally I managed to force out, "I...there's…there's this, this _thing_ that I do sometimes."

Alright, it wasn't very helpful but it _was_ a complete sentence, which was a big improvement on what I'd been coming out with so far. Embarrassed, already wishing I could take the words back, I stared at my hands, twining and untwining my fingers.

"A thing. Okay. What sort of thing?"

I opened my mouth, felt the words freeze in my throat and shut it again.

"Promise you won't tell Mrs Holmes? Or Mycroft?"

"I'm not the least bit interested in having any sort of conversation with Mycroft at all, Ben, but if you do need medical attention of some kind, I'll have to tell Mrs Holmes."

I shifted my weight, not liking the way this was going. "But you're a doctor. Can't _you_ help me?"

"Not if you don't tell me what it is you're so ashamed of," John answered candidly.

I tried, I really did, but every time I started the words just dried up. He watched me for a few moments, then said, "Alright, let's try this another way. You say that there's this thing that you do sometimes. Is there a certain time of day when it happens?"

I swallowed, my throat so dry it hurt. "N-no. Not really. It's more of a night time thing."

"Okay. Well, now we're getting somewhere. Why do you think you do it at night?" When I was silent, he went on. "Is it because you don't want anyone to know?"

I shook my head. "No. I mean, I _don't_ want anyone to know but that's not why I do it at night. I don't choose when it happens, it just…happens mostly at night."

John smiled a little. "Alright. So it's something you do mostly at night, something you're ashamed of and something you have no control over. Is it something that happens when you're asleep?"

I nodded, heart racing. Did he know? He _couldn't_ know!

"Right. Well, I've got it down to three possibilities. Think you could narrow it down to one for me?"

"I…" I stared at my hands a while longer, took two or three deep breaths, then forced myself to look at him and said in a rush, "I sleepwalk."

He nodded, as though it was no big deal. "Well, that was one of them."

I didn't want to ask what the other two had been; instead I just said, "That's how I met Sherlock. I went to sleep in my room and woke up inside his maze. He found me and brought me here. And, um, took my clothes off to dry."

John chuckled. "Well, from a medical point of view, he did the right thing, but it must've been a bit of a shock for you when you woke up."

I nodded, biting my lip, still not looking at him.

"He'd never hurt you, Ben," John said more seriously. "You know that, don't you? He may not be the easiest person in the world to get along with, but he'd never hurt you."

I glanced up at him and swallowed. The Coke and orange didn't seem to be doing any good; my throat felt as tight and dry as it had when I first started.

"Would Mycroft?"

"No. And I don't like Mycroft, so I'm not just saying that to be loyal. Mycroft's not a nice man, but believe me, he would never, ever do anything like that to you."

I looked back at my hands. I hadn't really been worried – however cold and aloof Mycroft was and however much he unnerved me, I'd always felt safe with him in _that_ respect – but it was still good to have it confirmed.

"And at least your sleepwalking explains why you were out barefoot in the snow," John added. "I didn't _think_ you were that stupid. Are you on any medication?"

"Mrs Holmes makes me take vitamin pills sometimes." Personally I think this is a waste of time, but I've never objected. The pills she gives me taste like orange Starburst, so I quite like them.

"Well, they wouldn't cause you to sleepwalk. You haven't been given any pills by a doctor lately?"

I shook my head.

"Okay. Well, by itself, sleepwalking isn't anything to worry about, and it's really nothing to be ashamed of either."

I scowled at my knees. "That's easy for you to say. You never ended up locked outside the house in your underwear before." I still wake up in a cold sweat thinking about that night. I'd been too scared to go to sleep for weeks after that, and whenever I did I always dreamed I was back out there.

John winced. "Ooh. Not funny. How many cars went past while you were out there?"

I pulled my good leg up and buried the lower half of my face in my knee.

"_Hundreds_," I mumbled.

"Yeah. That's the down side of sleepwalking."

"You mean there's an up side?" If there was, I hadn't found it.

He smiled a little at that. "No. Not really. What worries me is that your bedroom's on the third floor and you've already wandered outside once before. And in these temperatures!"

I swallowed. "If Sherlock hadn't found me, would I have died?"

"I don't know. I wasn't here, so I don't know how bad you were or how long you were out there in total. But you'd certainly have ended up in hospital." John paused, then said, "You should have gone to hospital anyway, but if I know Sherlock, he'd have wanted to do it all himself. Guy's a control freak."

I could believe that. Growing up in a house where your every move had to be approved, right down to your choice of music and hobbies, would make a control freak out of anyone.

"Does it ever go away on its own?" I asked. "The sleepwalking, I mean."

"Yes, sometimes. Why don't you go to Mrs Holmes about this? I'm sure she'd be happy to take you to a doctor."

"You're a doctor. Can't you do something? Give me something? She doesn't have to know. I...I don't want to worry her."

John raised his eyebrows. "You don't want to worry her, or you don't want to embarrass yourself?" When I didn't answer, he shrugged. "Either way, the answer's _no_. I'm not _your_ doctor and I've never seen your records or your medical history, so I'm not comfortable prescribing something that may have side effects. Do you know how long you were out in the snow?"

I shook my head. "No. Sherlock said he found me at about eight. I can't remember when I fell asleep and I never know when I start walking."

"Right. So you sleepwalked out of your bedroom, out of your house and into the maze."

I nodded, not looking at him. "Yeah...I guess. But I don't know how. I mean, the front door's always locked. I'd need to sleepwalk over to the keys, get the right one and unlock it, and then I'd have to open the door into the maze."

"Ben, there are cases of people getting dressed and driving a car in their sleep, so unlocking a door is pretty basic compared to that."

"But what if it happens again?"

"Hmm." John took a gulp of beer. "Do you know if the door to that maze locks?"

I nodded. "I think so, but I can't find the key. I think Sherlock took it."

"That's easy enough then. I'll get him to lock it and bring the key back here to the cottage. Then even if you do somehow manage to sleepwalk outside, you won't be able to get in, so you won't get lost again."

His matter-of-fact acceptance gave me the courage to ask the question I'd never quite dared to ask my own doctor.

"Is it true that if you wake a sleepwalker, they die?"

John chuckled. "No. They'd be a little confused, maybe even lash out in a panic, but they wouldn't die. That's just an urban legend. Have you ever sleepwalked before?"

I shifted my weight, not looking at him.

"Well...a little. When my dad died. And when I was in my foster home."

"Right." John hesitated, then said, "So your parents didn't die at the same time?"

I shook my head. "No. Dad died when I was ten. My mum died a couple years later."

"And did your sleepwalking stop on its own after a while?"

I racked my brains, trying to remember, then shook my head. "Not really. Well, it did when I was with my mum, but not...not after. But my foster mum took me to the doctor and he told her to wake me in the middle of the night. After that, I stopped."

He nodded, as though that made sense. "When did you start? Was it just after you moved in?"

I stared at him. "Yes! How did you know?"

"Stress or trauma can sometimes cause sleepwalking. It's not a very common cause, but it does happen. You did it after you lost your dad, then again after you'd lost your mum and a bunch of strangers grabbed you and shunted you into a house where you didn't know anyone before you had time to blink. That's enough trauma for anyone; in fact, I'd almost be worried if you didn't have some kind of reaction. How long were you with your foster family?"

I frowned, trying to remember. "About...six months? But I knew after four months that I was coming here. It just took another two to sort out paperwork or something."

"Do you miss them?"

I shrugged, and repeated what Mrs Holmes always said whenever I tried to talk about my foster family, or my birth family.

"Don't need them anymore. I've got this place."

"I didn't ask if you needed them, Ben. I asked if you missed them."

I didn't, exactly. I'd been settling in, but I was torn out and taken here before I could really get close to them. I missed the life there more than the people. Missed being able to wander into the kitchen and get myself a glass of milk or something without having to apply to Mrs Parker for permission, which she never granted.

But still...John was different. I didn't think he would laugh at me for what I was about to say, or get angry.

"Kinda," I admitted. "Maybe. Well...a little. Don't tell anyone, okay?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"

I shrugged again, playing with my fingers. "Mrs Holmes...well, she always says that caring's not an advantage and that I should just put it all behind me and move on. She says that the only way I can do this is to stop thinking about it and forget I ever lived with those people. That's exactly how she says it, _those people_. I'm not allowed to talk about them. Ever. She says it's unhealthy."

John glanced at me, frowning, and I rushed on.

"I mean, I talked to _you_ because you asked me and you need to know stuff like that because you're a doctor, right? 'Cause sometimes parents pass things on to their kids. Can you pass sleepwalking on?"

He shrugged. "It can happen sometimes, yeah. Did your parents sleepwalk?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "John?"

"Yeah?"

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. I wanted to tell him about what happened after I'd poured the water onto my plate, how I'd suddenly lost a chunk of time, but couldn't bring myself to do it. It wasn't that I thought he'd laugh at me; I was scared he'd brand me crazy and ship me off to a nuthouse. When I was eight, I'd made the mistake of watching a horror film that was set in an insane asylum where people were tied to the bed and forcibly injected, and the images of that film had stayed with me and left me with a secret phobia of places like that. Okay, I'm not a total idiot, so I knew the reality probably wouldn't be anything like Hollywood, but I still couldn't shake that fear. To be honest, I didn't even know how you ended up in one, except that telling a doctor what had happened would probably get me bumped to the front of the queue.

"Nothing."

"Sure?" His voice was very kind and I pushed myself to my feet before I could change my mind.

"I better get back to the house," I said, not looking at him. "Thanks for the drink."

"Alright. Need a hand?"

I shook my head. John was too easy to talk to. If I let him walk me back to the house, I'd end up spilling _all _my secrets.

"Okay. Well, I'll see you at dinner."

I hesitated. For a moment I thought about asking him if I could stay here until dinner, then I lost my nerve and limped over to the door instead.

The trek back to the house didn't seem quite so bad this time. After talking to John, I felt as though an invisible valve had been turned, letting off a small amount of stress. I was starting to feel more like me again. Maybe it was true what they said. Maybe talking did help.

As I passed the drawing room, I heard Sherlock and Mycroft's voices coming from inside. For a moment I stopped, torn, then I crouched down and squirmed in among some friendly pot plants to listen. At the time, I didn't think I was doing anything bad. I mean, I wasn't spying on them because I wanted to discover their secrets or anything; I was just curious to know how Sherlock and Mycroft would talk to each other when they thought nobody was listening.

"I don't care," Sherlock was saying as I wriggled into position and pricked up both ears. "The answer is _no_."

Mycroft sighed. "Must you always be so stubborn? You could easily afford a holiday cottage in the area."

"I could afford half a dozen holiday cottages in _any_ area, Mycroft, you know that. You just want me nearby so _you_ don't have to make your weekly Sunday. You don't want to be here any more than I do, you're just too weak to tell Mother you don't want to see her. Is that why you brought Ben here? So you wouldn't have to play the dutiful son anymore?"

"I had nothing to do with Ben's adoption, Sherlock."

"You had _everything_ to do with it. Oh, I'm sure there are social workers out there who would be blinded by Mother's wealth and the estate, but even they don't have the authority to bypass ninety percent of the system."

I heard a creaking sound that probably meant Mycroft had leaned back in his chair.

"Oh, I helped things along on _that _score, but I had nothing to do with Mother's decision to adopt. That was her idea entirely."

"Yes, I suppose any idea as stupid as that would _have_ to be. She decided to bring some poor kid into this place and you let her so you wouldn't have to be inconvenienced every Sunday. Ice Man." There was a slight sneer in his tone that hinted at this name being some kind of private understanding between them.

"Virgin," Mycroft countered in exactly the same tone.

I heard Sherlock chuckle.

"Not quite," he answered. "I'm afraid Moriarty was rather misinformed on that point. Of course, it wasn't the _only_ point he was misinformed on, was it?"

"Sherlock, if you were in _any_ kind of relationship, I would know about it."

"Oh, I never said I'd had a _relationship, _Mycroft. Just sex."

Oookay. I swallowed, half curious, half embarrassed. Maybe it was time to stop listening.

"Ah. Miss Adler, I presume."

"You presume wrongly, brother. I'm not interested in sex with anyone who uses the word _leash_ in reference to me."

Yeah, _definitely_ time to stop listening. I started wriggling backwards, trying to get out without alerting either Sherlock or Mycroft to my presence.

"It's just as well. God knows what you would have done for her if she'd offered you sex."

"She did offer me sex. I just wasn't interested."

Mycroft sighed. "Why did you come here, Sherlock?"

"I was summoned, remember?"

"You've been summoned for the past twenty years. Why come now? Why didn't you come before?"

"Well, I never had a little brother before." I knew, just _knew_ from the tone of his voice that Sherlock was smirking.

"Don't insult my intelligence, Sherlock. You weren't the least bit interested in Benedict. You came here because you wanted to hurt me, didn't you?"

"Ooh, aren't you the paranoid one? Tell me something, Mycroft. Did you talk to Ben before adopting him? Did that poor boy know exactly what kind of life he was going to be walking into? You and I barely came out of it in one piece, and we were born to it."

"Is that why you've taken to him so much, Sherlock? Don't think I haven't noticed you covering up for him, or destroying various items to divert Mother's anger onto your head."

"Well, he can't rely on _you_, brother dear. Your track record with children isn't all that good."

There was a clink that suggested Mycroft had just set his cup back in its saucer.

"Sherlock, I have _never_ lifted a finger to hurt a child. Any child."

"Really." It wasn't a question. "What about what you did to Nate?"

"Nate should never have been in your network to begin with, Sherlock. The boy was fifteen, for god's sake!"

"Yes, a fifteen year old who _you_ tortured to get information that he didn't even have!"

"For goodness' sake—" Mycroft sounded exasperated, as though this was a frequently made point between them— "I did _not_ torture that boy, nor did I order him to be tortured! I didn't even order him brought in! I don't know how else I can explain this; my agent was _not_ acting under my authority when he did what he did. Incidentally, Sherlock, I would like to know what you did with him."

"You really wouldn't. If you're talking about the body, I dumped it in the Atlantic. I can give you the coordinates, but it was three months ago and to be honest I doubt there's much left of him now."

Mycroft sighed. "I take it he was dead when you 'dumped him'?"

"Extremely so; I sliced through his carotid." Sherlock said this in the same matter-of-fact tone you'd use to talk about buying new curtains. "Admittedly that wasn't my first idea for what he did to Nate, but since my first idea involved a rubber sheet and a flamethrower, I think he came out of it rather well."

Another sigh. "Always so impetuous. I still haven't forgotten your behavior on the roof of that hospital."

"You seem to have forgotten something else though," Sherlock remarked, his voice suddenly cold.

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"You _put_ me on that damn roof, _brother_!" I had never heard that word snarled with so much hatred before. I'd also never heard someone go from cold to a boiling fury as fast as Sherlock did. "You sold me out for a secret that wasn't even true! You watched the press destroy me and my reputation and all the time you just sat back and did nothing. I mean, with your contacts, you must have been able to do something! Tell me, what would you have done if I hadn't devised a contingency plan? Actually no, _don't_ tell me, I already know the answer: you would have let me die."

"No, I would not!" Mycroft answered sharply. "If you think for one minute-"

"What I _think_, brother _dear_, is that you would have let me throw myself off that building and die in ignominy and all because you didn't have the balls to admit that you'd made a mistake!"

I redoubled my efforts to wriggle out quietly. There was a sick, churning feeling in my stomach. I don't do well even with normal arguments, and this one had a level of viciousness I'd never come across before.

I'd managed to get most of me out from among the plants when the door to the drawing room opened and Mycroft and Sherlock emerged.

Maybe I should put that a little differently. When I say they _emerged_, what I mean is that Sherlock ran Mycroft out of the door and slammed into the wall bare inches away from me, gripping him so tightly by the shirt I could see his knuckles turning white.

"Did you think for one minute that I would let it go?" His voice was low, chilling me and making me very, very glad that I wasn't Mycroft. "I've always been very tolerant of you sending your little spies around to watch me, but you really crossed the line this time. The next one I find will come back to you in a body bag. Do you understand me?"

"I understand that walls have ears."

Sherlock tightened his hold.

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" he demanded.

"It means, Sherlock, that perhaps we should continue this conversation in _private_?"

I didn't see, but Mycroft must have flicked his eyes towards me or something because Sherlock's head snapped round to stare at me.

I froze. I think I actually trembled, although I don't know for sure. I _do_ know that I have never been so frightened in my life. I was alone in a room with a man who was furious enough to kill. Correction; a man who already _had _killed. I didn't quite believe that Sherlock would murder _me_, but from the look on his face, I found myself expecting some kind of violence. I tried to say something, to promise never to mention what I'd heard them talking about, but the words wouldn't come.

Sherlock lunged and I flinched instinctively, but instead of hitting me, he seized me by the wrist and yanked me upright.

"_Get out_!"

I didn't have much choice, as he half shoved, half threw me through the door, sending me sprawling.

The door slammed behind me and I lay there on the floor, shaking all over, mouth dry. If this was a story or TV show, I guess John would have come along at that point. Since it was real life, nobody came except one of the staff, who took a quick look at me and then kept on walking. I felt like I was invisible. I could dimly hear Sherlock and Mycroft talking, but their voices were too low to distinguish any of the words.

After a few minutes, I pushed myself to my feet, and limped upstairs to my room, a single thought replaying itself over and over in my mind: enough was enough. I was going to do what Sherlock had told me to do. What I'd wanted to do for a long time, if I was honest with myself; I just hadn't been able to summon up the nerve. I picked up my phone and listened for a few minutes to make sure Mrs Holmes wasn't on the extension, then I called my social worker.

It rang. And rang. I'd just about decided that she was going to let it go to answerphone when she picked it up, sounding out of breath.

"Maureen Howarth."

"Maureen, hi. It's Ben."

"Oh...Ben." Her voice changed in an instant, going from her friendly _talk-to-me_ phone voice to a flat monotone. "How are you?"

I swallowed. She didn't seem too pleased to hear from me. "It's...okay, but not good. I mean, this place isn't good. I don't think it's working out."

"These things take time. You can't expect to be settled in immediately."

"I know, it's just, well, I've been here six months and things keep getting worse. There's all these _rules_ and I gotta—"

"Of course there are rules, Ben. That's part of being in a family."

"I _know_ that! I had one for twelve years! I just...this isn't going to work. I don't feel like I belong here."

"Hm." Maureen sounded bored. "Well, maybe you're not making enough of an effort. I know your mum's older than a lot of other mothers, but why don't you try and find something that you and she can do together?"

"She's _not_ my mum!"

"If that's your attitude—"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" I took a deep breath, then tried again. "I'm really sorry, but...can't you put me with another family? Please?"

"Oh god, no. The adoption was finalized almost as soon as you moved in. Your brother managed to get it pushed through. He's very important and when you get older I'm sure he'll be well placed to help you find a job. Look, Ben, we can't just rip you out of your adoptive family and send you to live with complete strangers."

"You ripped me out of my foster family and sent me to live with complete strangers," I couldn't resist pointing out.

"Ben, there is nothing I can do. You're a very lucky boy and you should be grateful to have such a wonderful opportunity. I work with several children who would love to live in a house like you have."

"Okay! Great! Let them come here and I'll go somewhere else!"

"You mustn't bother me again, Ben; I'm really very busy."

The line went dead. Slowly, I lowered my phone and stared at it, as though I could reopen the connection just by thinking about it.

_She hung up on me!_ I'd never had that from anyone before. And I'd never expected Maureen to do it; she'd always seemed nice, if a little harried at times.

I was just wondering whether or not I should call back when someone knocked on my door and I jumped, the phone tumbling out of my hand onto the bed.

"Ben?"

Sherlock. I felt a sudden jolt of adrenalin and my hand went to my bruised wrist, rubbing it unconsciously.

"Are you in there?" Sherlock's voice was calm, quiet. "I want to talk to you. And..." Long pause. "And I'm not going to hurt you."

When I didn't answer right away, he opened the door and walked in. Instinctively I grabbed a pillow, although I don't know what I was going to do with it. Even if I hadn't hurt my ankle, I didn't know if I could outrun him. I'd never seen him run, but there was kind of a lithe grace about him that suggested he was _fast_.

"Are you afraid of me?" Sherlock demanded.

I swallowed hard. "Yeah."

"Why?" He moved a little closer and I pushed myself back, clutching my trusty pillow.

"Are you going to kill me?" I asked.

Sherlock looked disapproving. "What? No! Who told you that?"

I licked my lips. "No one, but..."

"Go on," he prompted.

"I heard you talking to Mycroft. I heard what you said to each other."

"So? I eavesdropped a lot as a child. Still do, as a matter of fact. Hardly a capital offense." Sherlock was silent for a while, then said in a somewhat strained voice, "And...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. I was emotional." The way he said _emotional_ made it sound like he was confessing to something dirty. "I should never have come back here. This place brings out the worst in me."

"Is it true you killed a man?" I blurted out, before my nerve failed me completely.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and settled down on the bed next to me.

"_A_ man? No. Several, yes. If you're referring to David Holland, that particular man kidnapped and tortured a fifteen year old street kid who worked for me, one I happen to be quite fond of. Some of the others in my network used to accuse me of playing favorites with him. All totally absurd, of course. I don't have favorites. Ever. Oh, and you can put down the pillow; if I did decide to kill you, I doubt a bag of feathers would be sufficient to stop me."

I bit my lip and shuffled a little closer. I was fairly sure that if Sherlock had been planning to kill me, he wouldn't have stopped to chat first.

"What exactly did he do for you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Spied. Followed anyone I wanted following."

"You mean...like Mycroft?"

"No, I've not the least interest in knowing what my brother is up to, Ben. Frankly, I'd be quite happy never to see or hear from him again, since whenever he shows up, my life goes to hell. I send my networkers to spy on _interesting_ people. And people who don't have the legal power to have them locked up for as long as they please," Sherlock admitted.

"Was that it? You just got him to follow people for you?"

He looked at me and said levelly, "What else would I want him for?"

There was no tactful way to answer _that_ question and so I decided not to attempt it.

"I hate your brother," I said, which really wasn't true. I didn't hate Mycroft and I hadn't forgotten his covering up for me at dinner or letting me go to Asda. I don't even know why I said it, unless it was because I could vent at Sherlock without having him leap to his brother's defense. I felt if I didn't start letting out some more of what was boiling inside me, I'd explode; the encounter with Sherlock downstairs had shattered any relief I'd managed to gain from my talk with John.

For a moment Sherlock looked like he was trying to decide whether or not he should put his hand on my shoulder. Acting on a wild, crazy impulse, I solved the problem by grabbing his wrist and pulling his arm around me, and leaning into his side. He stiffened – I think he wondered what I was doing – then cleared his throat and patted my shoulder awkwardly.

"I called my social worker," I said, or rather mumbled. My face was mashed against Sherlock's ribs, which made talking difficult.

"Oh?" When I didn't elaborate, he went on. "Well, I think you're very wise."

I didn't answer.

"It was nothing personal, Ben. I hope you can believe that. I didn't want you out of this family because I don't like you. I wanted you out of this family because I know what it's like. It would only have got worse for you. You'll be much better off leaving this place behind. Find yourself a normal family. Forget you ever met any of us."

"She won't help me!" I blurted.

Sherlock was silent for a few minutes. Then he said, "What?"

"She won't help. She says...I'm..."

"Well?"

"She says I'm being ungrateful and I should be happy to live in a house like this. And she told me not to call her again."

Sherlock sighed. "In other words, brother Mycroft has already got to her and laid down the law. Well, it was a long shot at best."

I stared at him, eyes huge. "He can do that?"

"He could snap his fingers and have you placed with any family in this country he chose. I imagine he rushed the application through for Mother dearest and stopped anyone from contesting the adoption to save himself the trouble of having to rush through another application."

"What about you?"

"Me?" Sherlock looked surprised. At least, I think he did. It's hard to tell with him. "I'm a consulting detective, not a government drone. The best I could do would be to take you with me when I left, and if I did _that_, Mycroft would simply shut down every road from here to London and have you dragged back. My brother, though it pains me to say this, is not a stupid man. If you want to get away, it'll have to be under your own steam. But then, you knew that already." He paused. I could see him visibly debating what to say, then he went on. "I can't help you much, but if you do make it to London, then come to me. I can hide you."

I stared at him, frightened. A lot of kids dream about running away from home – whenever Mum or Dad told me off about something, I used to lie in bed and fume myself to sleep, imagining how much better life would be if only I lived with my best mate – but Sherlock seemed to accept it as a cold fact rather than a romantic dream.

"You mean...you're not going to stop me? Tell me I should stay here?"

"That would be rather hypocritical of me. I can't smuggle you out with me, but I can give you this." He reached into his coat and pulled out a Blackberry.

I gawked at it. I'd wanted one of those for _ages_, but Mrs Holmes refused to let me have any mobile phone (like I said, she's living in a time warp) and now this new brother was just _giving_ me one? Was this his way of apologizing for earlier?

"Are you mental?" I asked at last.

"Don't be absurd. What could possibly be mental about giving someone a Christmas present, albeit a rather late one. Isn't that what older brothers do?"

Something told me this wasn't a rhetorical question, crazy as it sounds. I resisted the temptation to ask if Sherlock had ever received a Christmas present from Mycroft and stretched out a hand.

"You mean it?"

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it. Go on, take it. I always carry a couple spare for my Network, so you may as well have one. My number's programmed into the memory. For use in emergencies only; I'm not a lover of idle gossip, nor do I want you running up a huge phone bill at the end of every month. You can use your own phone to talk to any friends you may have."

I took it, feeling like I was being swept along on a wave that was not only far too big for me to handle, but was going to crash down around me at any second.

"What do you mean by an emergency?" I asked.

"If you hear Mother talking about you and she says something you don't quite understand, if she's talking about sending you somewhere besides school, then for god's sake text me. Anytime, it doesn't matter." Sherlock caught hold of my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. There was a tiny mark in his right eye, a small spot of brown like a freckle. I wondered what had caused it. Had he always had it?

"I mean it, Ben." His voice was low, intense. "Keep that—" he indicated the Blackberry— "with you at all times. Don't let anyone know you've got it, if you can help it, especially not my family."

"What about John?" The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"Hmm." Sherlock tilted his head slightly on one side as he looked at me. "Yes, okay. You do seem rather attached to him."

That was good. Half the fun of having a new and expensive toy is bragging about it; I couldn't wait to show this off to John. Sherlock was right about my being attached to him, although I wasn't sure how or why it had happened. Maybe because Mrs Holmes and Sherlock were both obsessed with Mycroft (albeit for very different reasons) and John and I were always left on the sidelines.

"Sherlock? If I did want to leave—" and even saying that frightened me— "what...what would I do? I mean, I don't know much about camping or living off the land."

"Why would you want to know—oh, right, you've got some romantic notion of traveling from here to London on foot." Sherlock sighed. "Okay, you want to run away from home, here's what you do. You keep the money my brother gave you for Christmas, and you get one of my family's drivers to take you into Merle and wait in the car for you. Then you go through the shopping center, come out the other side and buy a ticket to London Waterloo. From there you get a cab to my address; that's 221B Baker Street. Do you want me to write it down for you?"

I shook my head. "N-no, I think I can remember. But..."

My voice tailed off. I wanted to say that I didn't know whether or not I wanted to run away, or if living with Sherlock would be any better than living with his mother, although the thought occurred that it could hardly be _worse_.

"It's just a backup plan," Sherlock assured me. "Who knows? Things here may get better and you may not want to leave."

"Oh, I want to!" The vehemence of my reply surprised me; it burst out before I could think about it.

"Then when you go, you'll have to go quickly. Find me before Mycroft finds you."

"What if I don't want to hide with you? What if I want to hide with John?"

"John and I are flatmates, so if you're hiding with him then you're hiding with me. And as I told you, I _can_ hide you from my family. I'm about the only one who can, so if you don't want some of Mycroft's people to drag you back here for Mother to keep you on a leash, you're going to need me. Think it over."

He got to his feet so abruptly he spilled me sideways onto the bed, and walked out, closing the door behind him. Left alone, I rolled over onto my stomach, staring at my new Blackberry, and wondered what the hell I was supposed to do now.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay, that's it for this chapter ;) Hope you enjoyed it and if you read, please review!<strong>


	7. More Sleepwalking

"Ben?"

That voice. I frowned slightly. It had been mumbling at me for a while, but this was the first time I'd heard it speak clearly.

Someone took hold of my shoulders and my mind snapped awake in an instant. Before I knew what was happening, I punched John in the face.

I didn't mean to do it. I really didn't. I hadn't even known I was _going_ to do it until I did it and saw him staggering back.

I stared at him, so shocked at what I'd done that I couldn't find the words to apologize. I'd never hit anyone in my life, not seriously (the odd school scuffle or game of rough and tumble doesn't count). I'd never even _dreamed_ of hitting an adult before. The closest I'd come to it was throwing my tea in Mycroft's face, and when the anger had worn off I'd been twisted with guilt over doing that much.

"Blimey." John straightened up, touching his jaw gingerly. "I was wrong; it _is_ dangerous to wake a sleepwalker."

"I...I never...I didn't..." I stared around and felt my heart drop. I'd done it again. I'd fallen asleep in my bedroom, and now I was in the gardener's cottage.

"It's alright. I only woke you because you were getting a little too close to the fire and didn't seem to want to move away." John worked his lower jaw a few times. "That's quite a right hook you've got there."

"I didn't _mean_ to!" It was half a wail. If I had to be woken up by someone and punch them in a panic, why couldn't it have been Mycroft? (I didn't really hate him enough to punch him, but even I balked at the idea of hitting Mrs Holmes).

"I know you didn't, mate. Take it easy, alright?"

I backed away, glancing around.

"But I...and then I...I was just..."

"Alright, Ben, alright. Just try and relax, okay? You're like a squirrel on caffeine. C'mon."

He put an arm across my shoulders. I hesitated for a few seconds, then let him steer me over to the couch and sit me down on it. I was white, shaking from head to foot, my mouth dry and tingling.

"That's it. Nothing to worry about."

Nothing to worry about? Did he really expect me to believe that? What would have happened if I'd managed to get the key to the maze and wander into it again? What if I'd fallen down the stairs and broken my arm, or worse?

I'd got as far as imagining my own death from tripping and falling down the outside steps and dying of a fractured skull with my brains leaking into the snow when the bedroom door opened and Sherlock wandered in, looking very un-Holmes-y in a faded gray t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms.

"What's going on?" he demanded, then caught sight of me and looked away with an expression of utter disinterest. "Oh. Sleepwalking. _Dull_."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Sherlock. If you're not going to do anything useful, then go back to bed!"

"Well, what do you expect _me_ to do? He's not sleepwalking now, is he?" Sherlock strolled into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Seconds later, he slammed it shut again. "John, we're out of mince pies."

"Yeah, Sherlock. That would be because you ate the last one this evening. I'll pick some more up tomorrow."

I perked up a little. That meant another trip out.

"John?"

"Yeah?" John said, in the long, drawn-out tone of one who knows what's coming next.

"Can I come?"

"_If_ you get permission from Mrs Holmes. And I'll be checking this time."

"I don't know why you insist on that, John," Sherlock drawled. "It's not like she's going to miss him."

"Yeah, exactly. I can go for days without seeing anyone here sometimes, if I skip meals." Too late, I realized what I'd said and snapped my mouth shut.

John looked at me, eyebrows raised. "Right. How often _do_ you skip meals?"

"Not often. I mean, not like every day or anything. Maybe every other day, and even then it's not usually _every_ meal," I told him as innocently as I could, which wasn't saying much considering I still felt a bit like I'd been hit with a brick. The truth was, I didn't seem to have any appetite, and not just because Mrs Parker could burn the breakfast cereal. Lately all I wanted to do was lie down and sleep, or stare into space. Even the pool seemed to have lost its appeal.

"It's still not good enough," John informed me.

I bit my lip. Hard. "Yeah. Well. Nothing I do for this family ever is."

It came out with a lot more bitterness than I'd intended, and I cringed inwardly.

There was a surprised silence, then John said in a softer voice, "That's not what I meant."

I didn't answer. I could feel the static building up in my mind again and clenched my fist, trying to beat it back down.

I failed.

When I came back to myself, as I was starting to think of it, the first thing I noticed was Sherlock plucking idly at a violin. I didn't recognize the tune, but the sound was soothing. I didn't realize he played. He was still wearing the t-shirt and tracksuit, although now he'd added a luxurious, soft-looking, dark red dressing gown to the mix. I think it was cashmere, although I'm not sure.

"Ben?" The voice was soft, although a little distant. "Can you hear me?"

I turned my head slowly to face the speaker.

"That's it. Welcome back." John held out a mug of something hot and savory-smelling. When I didn't take it immediately, he took my hand and wrapped it around the handle. "Here. Try and drink some of this."

I sniffed at the contents, then took a sip. Chicken soup. Not bad.

"What's the time?" I asked.

"Time you were in bed."

Great; an adult with an attitude. Just what I needed.

"No, really," I insisted. "What time is it?"

"Quarter to eleven."

"How long..." I swallowed and buried myself in my chicken soup for several minutes, draining it before speaking again. "H-how long was I...did I..."

My voice tailed off, as I had no idea of the right words for what happened.

"About twenty minutes," John said.

Twenty minutes. Somehow I'd lost twenty minutes. It wasn't as bad as last time, but last time I hadn't had John to bring me out of it.

"And we need to talk about what happened," he added.

"Am I going mad?"

"Probably," Sherlock remarked.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" John said sharply. "No, Ben, you're not going mad."

I stared at him, trying to figure this out. Blanking out entire chunks of time sounded pretty mad to me.

"What happened?"

"Basically, your mind couldn't cope with your sleepwalking again and so it shut down for a bit."

"Is it like shock?" Shock wouldn't be so bad. Plenty of people went into shock. Going into shock was better than going mad.

"Yes, in a way. Ben, has this ever happened to you before?"

I looked away, biting my lip, and didn't answer.

"Ben? I need to know. You won't be in any trouble. I won't even tell Mrs Holmes if you don't want me to."

I looked back at him. "Promise?"

"Promise. Has it happened before?"

"Once," I admitted.

"Recently?"

"After I...after lunch today. I lost about three hours. But it was like here. I could see. And hear...sort of." It had been a vague kind of hearing. I'd heard John talking to me when I'd blanked out just now, but the words hadn't seemed to mean much to me.

"Yeah, that's normal. People who have this are aware of what's going on around them, but they can't react to it." He smiled. "But no, you're not going mad. I promise you that too. And before you ask, no, there's nothing I can give you for it."

"Can't you tie me to the bed or something?" I was only half joking. The last thing I wanted was for Mrs Holmes to see me doing it...or to end up trapped outside again.

"No, I can't tie you to the bed! Ben, why are you so ashamed of it? Lots of people do it."

I looked him straight in the eye. "Do _you_?"

"No," he admitted.

"Do Sherlock and Mycroft?"

Sherlock paused in his violin twanging and looked thoughtful. "I certainly never did, but I'm not so sure about Mycroft. I think he may have done it when he was at school."

My jaw dropped. "Really?"

"I shouldn't mention it to him if I were you. My brother isn't much given to sharing and I doubt he'd tell you if you asked."

That went without saying; I couldn't imagine even hinting at such a thing to Mycroft.

"Although speaking of school," Sherlock added, half watching me out the corner of one eye as he went back to plucking his violin, "I'm a little surprised Mother dearest hasn't packed you off there yet."

Boarding school. That was another black cloud, one that was creeping nearer every day. Okay, I wasn't going until the next intake (which sounded odd to me, but then so did most things in this family) but it was still preying on my mind.

"April," I muttered.

"Oh yes, of course. The summer intake. I imagine Mother had to do rather a lot of groveling to get you in."

Was that supposed to be an insult? It was so hard to tell with him.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well, let's just say that the last Holmes boy to reside within those sacred walls of learning didn't do much to distinguish himself. Or to be perfectly accurate, he didn't distinguish himself in any way that the school approved of." Sherlock smirked at some private memory. "You'd think a school would _encourage_ scientific experiments."

John gave him a long look. "What kind of _scientific experiments_?"

Sherlock tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Well, you know what happens when you put potassium in water?"

I didn't, but John said, "Yeah..."

"I merely wanted to find out what would happen if, say, an additional chemical was added to that water. So I broke into the chemistry lab one night, stole the biggest lump of potassium I could find, went down to the swimming pool and—"

"Oh god." John covered his face.

"It was quite pretty actually. Bit like a giant firework."

"Yeah, well, I still don't see why I have to go to any stupid boarding school," I mumbled, not quite under my breath. "Why can't I go to a day school?"

Sherlock chuckled. "What, a Holmes boy mixing with all those nasty common boys at the local comprehensive? Perish the thought!"

"You said you weren't happy living on the estate," John pointed out, with a glare at Sherlock. "Maybe the school will be better. At least you'll be with kids your own age."

Okay, I'll admit it; that was the only part about going to school I _was_ looking forward to. I didn't miss classes, but I did miss hanging out with my mates and playing football with them. I was getting used to being alone all the time, but that didn't mean I liked it.

"Yeah, but I don't know where it is. I don't even know what _school_ it is!"

"Carrisford."

John glanced at Sherlock, an irritated expression on his face. "What?"

Sherlock abandoned his violin plucking, putting a hand over the strings to stop the sound completely.

"Carrisford Hall. You can look it up on the net. It's where all the Holmes boys go, even the adopted ones, I imagine." He gave me something that he probably meant for a smile (I don't think Sherlock has had a lot of practice in smiling) and went back to his violin.

"What's it like there?" I asked.

"Well, I expect it's changed a lot since my day."

"That doesn't matter. Just...anything. Please."

Sherlock stopped the violin again and sighed. "Five houses: Shakespeare, Newton, Columbus, Darwin and Einstein, the last two added in recent years, obviously. No idea when, but they were there when I attended. Very small and select, full of rich idiots and inbred teachers. Extremely old-fashioned. I hated every second of it."

That wasn't very reassuring.

"Did you hate it more than here?" John asked.

"Oh god, yes. At least here I could go where I wanted and do whatever I liked. I didn't have half a dozen so-called teachers and prefects breathing down my neck every time I wanted to take a walk."

John sighed. "Right. Thanks, Sherlock. Remind me to give you a little refresher course on facial cues when we get back to London."

"Oh, were those facial cues? Sorry, I thought you'd developed some kind of nervous tic. Anyway, there's no point letting Ben think it's going to be all sunshine and roses there. Much kinder to put him on his guard." Sherlock placed the violin carefully down by his chair, got to his feet and headed for the fruit bowl. "Satsuma, Ben?"

"Uh...no thanks. Do they play football at this school?" I could put up with a lot if there was football on offer.

"Of course not." Sherlock grabbed a banana, sat down and started to peel it. "Far too rough and messy."

"What about rugby?" John asked.

Rugby. That might not be so bad. I'd never played rugby, but it looked like fun.

"No. Unusual for a school like that, I admit, but no. You're limited to cricket, or fencing. If it's fencing you're interested in, I suggest you have a chat with Mycroft; he's an ex-county champion."

"You must swim or something," John said, when he noticed I didn't want to add anything.

"Oh yes, but only in the summer term. The pool's outdoors and not very well heated. The one on the estate is much better. Oh, and they used to have paper chases, but they stopped those after I joined the school."

John, who had started to say something to me, paused, then closed his mouth and turned to stare at Sherlock.

"_After_ you joined the school," he said shrewdly, "or _because_ you joined the school?"

"Well, it's true that they stopped it after my first attempt at laying a trail," Sherlock admitted, "but they never said why."

"What happened?" I asked, interested in spite of myself.

"Oh, something about a close encounter with a few herds of cows and a couple of double-decker buses and fourteen charges of breaking and entering, I don't know."

"But how—oh god," John said heavily, and sighed. "You laid the trail through someone's house, didn't you? You actually went into someone's _house_."

"Well, I didn't know it was _occupied,_" Sherlock said around a mouthful of banana. "I mean, it was completely empty when I broke in through the window, went out the back door and over the garden fence. There was so much post in front of the door, I thought whoever lived there was away on holiday."

I stared at him, half awed, half shocked. There was no way I'd have had the nerve to do something like that.

"How old were you?" I asked.

"Eleven. Going there was a waste of time; I could see that from the moment I arrived. Nothing worth doing, nobody worth listening to or talking to."

"But you said things have probably changed since you were there," John persisted, and glanced at me. "You never know. They might play football now after all."

"They may well do," Sherlock agreed, "although I wouldn't hold my breath. Carrisford doesn't put much of an emphasis on athleticism. They like more cultural pursuits, such as stamp collecting, or gentle walks in the countryside, or flower pressing."

I stared at him. "You're kidding!"

A slight gleam appeared in those cold eyes. "Only about the flower pressing. They have a philately society, although joining it is optional."

"What other societies are there?" John asked.

"Don't remember any offhand, but I know they had them. Like I say, you could look it up on the internet." Sherlock twanged a few more notes on his violin, frowned slightly and twiddled one of the tuning knobs, or whatever you call those sticky-out things, then played the same note two or three more times. I couldn't hear any difference, but Sherlock seemed satisfied.

"What's it like though? I mean _really_ like?"

"I've no idea. I left when I was twelve and came back here."

"Really?" I perked up, and even John seemed interested. "How did you manage that?"

"Waited until it was dark and walked out, then got on a train and took a cab back to the estate. I knew all the little hidey-holes and the best way to get in without being seen. After that it was just a matter of keeping out of sight for the three weeks until term ended."

"Your mother must have been out of her mind with worry," John said. I thought I heard a note of reproach in his voice.

"My mother? Please. The only thing she ever worries about is her bridge game. When I came out of hiding, she tried to give me a lecture on how I'd let the family down and how terrible I'd made her look in front of her friends. I listened until she started boring me, then I walked out. She paid the school an extra half million, so I was allowed back next term. And the next. And the next, right up until my fifteenth birthday when I left the maze, the estate _and_ the school."

Something about that seemed a little odd, but I was tired and my mind was starting to slow down again, and so I couldn't put my finger on it. Luckily John was there.

"What do you mean you left the _maze_?"

"What I say. The maze is in the grounds, I left the grounds, therefore I left the maze."

"Well, yeah, but by that argument you also left the pool, the TV and the goldfish pond. Why pick out the maze? What's so special about that?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Ben? You didn't notice any secrets in that maze, did you? Any hidden treasure?"

I shook my head. I was feeling more and more tired. I didn't want to think about that maze or anything; I just wanted to curl up and sleep.

"Okay. Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned his head languidly to look at John and didn't answer.

"Do me a favor. That maze of yours, can you draw us a map?"

"What? No! I don't want to leave something like that lying around; I built that maze to keep people out, not invite them in to play!"

"And what's going to happen when we've gone if Ben sleepwalks into that maze again?"

I winced. I didn't like the thought of that. And I _really _didn't like being reminded that John and Sherlock were just visiting.

"I still won't draw you a map; in that situation it wouldn't be any good anyway." Sherlock paused, then said to me in a voice dripping with reluctance, "But I'll show you around."

I perked up at that. The thought of spending some one-on-one time with Sherlock that didn't involve him trying to kill Mycroft was tempting.

"When? Tomorrow?"

"Yes, might as well get it over with. I expect it'll take several sessions before you're really competent in there."

I opened my mouth to protest that I wasn't as stupid as he seemed to think, but somewhere along the line it turned into a huge yawn.

"Come on." John got to his feet. "Bed."

"Not g-going back to th' house," I told him, around another yawn. Am I the only person who suffers from serial yawning?

"No, you can sleep in my room. I'll have the sofa."

I flushed. "It's okay, I can go on the sofa—"

"No, you need a bed, and at least if you sleepwalk again I'll be here to stop you going out the door or anything like that. Come on."

I took his offered hand and hauled myself to my feet, stumbling slightly, then followed John into his bedroom and flopped onto his bed. It was harder than the one I had back at the house, but oddly I felt safer and more comfortable there than I had in months. I barely heard John leave; my mind was half asleep already and the other half was busy thinking about Sherlock's maze. He'd mentioned going to check on it a couple of times and I could only think that he was talking about whatever was in the center. He didn't strike me as the gardening type, so he couldn't be worried about the condition of his pansies or rosebushes or whatever, but what else would you keep in the middle of a maze? More to the point, what would a person like _Sherlock_ keep in the middle of his own personal maze?

While I was trying to puzzle it out, I fell asleep.

The next morning, I was woken up by the rich, warm aroma of coffee. I don't actually like coffee, but I love the smell of it.

Something was wrong. I blinked sleep out of my eyes and glanced around, disoriented. This wasn't my bedroom. How had I ended up here?

Moving slowly – I felt a little lightheaded for some reason – I swung both legs over the side of the bed, then limped over to the door and opened it.

"Morning," John greeted me from where he was sitting at the table with a paper and a cup of coffee.

"Where..." I began, then stopped. My voice was a bare croak. I coughed once or twice, trying to clear it. Each time felt like my throat was being torn apart.

"Still in the gardener's cottage," he said, sipping at his coffee. "You sleepwalked down here last night, remember?"

Now that he mentioned it (and now that the normal sleep grogginess was wearing off) I did. Some more limping brought me to the table and I sat down.

"What's the time?" I rasped. John glanced over at me, frowning.

"Are you okay? You sound terrible."

"Thanks!"

"You know what I mean." John tried to put a hand on my forehead, but I managed to stop him first by ducking and then by pulling my sweater up over my face.

"Ben..." There was a quiver in his voice that suggested he was trying hard not to laugh. "Come on, let me have a look at you."

"You'll stop me going out with Sherlock today," I croaked as accusingly as I could.

"I will if you don't let me examine you. Better safe than sorry. Come on."

He took hold of my sweater and pulled it down, then put a hand on my forehead, and I flinched. Don't get me wrong, I didn't think he was going to hit me or anything, it's just that I'd gone for months without any kind of physical contact and now I discovered I was a little skittish about being handled, not to mention his hands were cold.

He frowned a little and reached up with both hands, placing two fingers on either side of my neck.

"Are you taking my pulse?" I asked.

"No, I'm feeling your lymph glands."

"Oh." That didn't explain anything, but John seemed to think that it should and I didn't like to quiz him too much. Dr. Morris – he's the GP I'm registered with here – hates me asking questions.

Pain shot from the side of my neck into the back of my throat and I winced.

"Sorry. Well, you've definitely got some kind of infection in there, but you probably knew that anyway. Stay inside and wrap up warm, okay?"

I stared at him. "But...but Sherlock said he'd show me around his maze."

To be honest, I had mixed feelings about this. On the one hand I was curious to know what Sherlock kept in there that required him to lock it away and it would be nice to spend some time with him without the atmosphere between him and Mrs Holmes, or him and Mycroft. On the other, I couldn't shake the uneasy trickle running through my mind and reminding me that the last time I went in there, I'd almost died of hypothermia.

"Yeah, I remember. He's waiting for you outside the entrance. How's your ankle?"

"Better," I said, which was true. Walking was still painful, but I could hobble around a little more easily now. "Can I come shopping with you today?"

"I'm not going today, and I don't think you're up to it. And if you're waiting for me to forget about your asking Mrs Holmes for permission, you'll be waiting for a very long time."

I slumped dejectedly in my chair.

"Worth a _try_," I muttered.

"Yes, it was. Are you sure your ankle's up to traipsing around that maze? I've never been in there but according to Sherlock it's pretty big."

"Yeah, I'm good." I hopped to my feet and tested my weight as I spoke. "If I don't go now, Sherlock might change his mind. C'mon, _ple-e-e-ease_?"

John studied me over his mug, then his mouth quirked into a half smile.

"Go on. But if you're not back in an hour, I'm coming in after you and Sherlock. With a giant butterfly net."

I couldn't help smiling at the thought of that. "You mean I can come back here?"

"You can come back here or go up to the house, so long as you're in the warm. But if you come back here, Ben, I expect you to eat some breakfast."

My throat whimpered at the mere thought of that.

"Not toast," I pleaded hoarsely.

"No, I'll find something soft. Something like yogurt or cereal. And if you're going out, take my jacket."

I found his parka hanging on the back of the door and pulled it on, snuggling into the warm, comfy lining. Right then, I decided that I wanted a jacket like this one. I also wanted one like Sherlock's, but I thought I'd wait until I finished growing before I got that one. Before John had a chance to change his mind, I opened the door and hurried outside, or at least hurried as much as my ankle would let me.

Sherlock was standing at the entrance to his maze, just as John said. He had a look of supreme boredom on his face, but I'd already learned that he often looked like that, so I didn't think too much of it but just walked up to him.

"You made it then." He didn't sound pleased. "Well, I suppose we'd better get this over with."

This wasn't the greeting I'd expected, and I wilted a little.

"You don't have to take me if you don't want to," I croaked.

"You're half right. I don't want to and I _do_ have to." Sherlock sighed. "John's right; if you end up sleepwalking into my maze again, you'll need to be able to find your way out. Or further in."

I swallowed. I badly wanted to ask him why he didn't just draw me the map – I was certain I could hide it from Mrs Holmes – but the words stuck in my throat. Yesterday was still very vivid in my mind, and even though it hadn't been my fault, I didn't want to see Sherlock so angry again.

"Something?" Sherlock asked. (How did he and Mycroft _do_ that?)

"Why don't you just draw me a map? I wouldn't—"

"Because a map only works when you know where you are on it," he cut across. "If you were starting at the entrance, you could follow the map through, but if you sleepwalk and wake up in the middle of my maze, you won't have a clue which route you took or where you ended up, so you won't be able to work out the best route back. Add that to the fact that it will probably be too dark for you to _see_ the map and you'd have to sleep with it at all times and it really is quite impractical." There was a short pause, then he sighed again. "Oh, I'm just playing at dog-in-the-manger. I suppose I must have had some idea of showing it to you right from the beginning, else I wouldn't have bothered to get it back up and running. I'll take you, but on one condition: you never, ever tell anyone what I'm about to show you. You don't tell the staff, you don't tell Mother and you _certainly _don't tell Mycroft."

I bit my lip.

"Can I tell John?" I asked.

Sherlock scrutinized me for a few minutes, then nodded.

"Yes. Alright. But only if he asks you directly; do not volunteer the information. And by _directly_, I mean _Hey Ben—_" here he dropped into a near-perfect impersonation of John's voice— "_what exactly does Sherlock have in the middle of his maze_, not _Hey Ben, what did you do in there_?"

He pushed open the door and I felt a tingle of anticipation.

"Are we going to the middle?"

"Eventually. Come on, if you're coming."

I didn't quite get what he meant by _eventually_, but I wasn't about to miss this. _Eventually_ was as good as a _yes_ in my book, and I really wanted to see what he had in the middle that was such a big secret.

I took a deep breath, then followed Sherlock into the maze, and the door clicked shut behind me.

* * *

><p><strong>I was going to have the maze in this chapter, but then I realized it would make it just too long ;) Anyway, hope you enjoyed it and if you read, please review!<strong>


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